A different dilemma
by Chapin CSI
Summary: slash, G&G. Drama, romance. A tragic shooting forces Gil to reexamine his life. NEW: Gil and Greg finally meet. Complete...
1. Chapter 1

Back when I was writing Dilemma, I wrote a couple of chapters that were too dramatic to be included in what was essentially, a light-hearted story. At the time I said I would turn those chapters into a separate story, but I kept putting it off until now.

The story might make more sense if you read the first chapters of Dilemma (up to chapter 10), but it's not really necessary. In Dilemma, Grissom made all the right choices. He doesn't fare as well in here. There'll be a happy ending, though –as always! ; )

This story starts towards the end of "Spellbound", a great G/G episode. There was tension between Gil & Greg - right from the start. Gil was slightly pissed off at Greg for taking Warrick's place at an investigation. This reaction seemed a bit extreme, and so I came up with an explanation here.

Spoiler: Spellbound, of course.

The phrase that Grissom quotes is from the short story "Ocean Avenue," by Michael Chabon.

The story is told from Grissom's POV

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A DIFFERENT DILEMMA

Prologue:

Our investigation into the murder of psychic Sedona Wylie had concluded. With her killer in custody, I went to my office to write my report. I wasn't yet half-through, when Greg came by, ostensibly to discuss some last-minute details. We ended up talking about the supernatural undertones of the case –he was a believer and I was not- but after a moment we grew silent, and simply stared at each other.

As I looked at him, I was reminded of something I read a long time ago: _If you can still see how you could once have loved a person, you are still in love; an extinct love is always wholly incredible._

I was still in love, then.

I wondered if he still feel the same about me.

He smiled faintly at me. He was sitting back, with his legs stretched under my desk, smiling faintly and generally acting as if my old visitor's chair were the most comfortable chair he'd ever sat on.

He was completely at ease, while I felt awkward and uncomfortable.

"It was fun, working together again." He said, "We hadn't done that, lately."

He was right. We hadn't worked together for a while now, and if it had depended on me, he would not have worked on the Sedona Wyley case, either; I had specifically paged Warrick and got Greg instead.

Warrick later told me that Greg had talked him into letting him work on the case, citing a life-long desire to work on a psychic's death. Greg had even offered to take over Warrick's shift on the next holiday, and that was an offer that Warrick just couldn't refuse.

"It'll cost me Thanksgiving this year," Greg said ruefully now, "But that's ok. After all, Warrick has someone to go home to and I don't."

I glanced down.

This was precisely why I had avoided Greg lately: I was afraid that any conversation we started might turn personal. The wounds left by our short-lived relationship were still fresh, and talking wasn't going to do any good. Looking at him didn't help, either -it only reminded me of my loss.

"I have a confession to make," Greg said, and he waited until I looked up. "I went to that strip club just to make you jealous." He smiled sheepishly. "Pathetic, huh?"

"It was effective." I admitted unguardedly.

Greg seemed surprised.

"Was it?" he asked, "You didn't look like you cared much."

Well, I'm good at holding back my feelings -as he should know by now.

"I mean…" he hesitated, "You look at peace with yourself, Grissom. You've put a huge distance between us, and you act as if that's just the way you want things to be."

I took a deep breath.

"Greg… I know I haven't been handling this well -" I hesitated, "I'm sorry -"

"It's all right," he said good-naturedly, "I forgive you."

I looked up sharply. He was still smiling, and after a moment I reluctantly smiled back.

He sighed.

"I just wish we could, you know, talk about this." He said. "The thing is…" he hesitated, "I've missed you."

I looked at him –really looked at him. He was thinner, and dark shadows lurked under his eyes -the tell-tale signs of insomnia. I suddenly pictured him laying on his bed, unable to sleep, thinking of me. At least, that's what _I _had been doing these past weeks; laying awake, thinking of him and wondering whether he was alone…

I took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry about all this." I said regretfully. "Sometimes I wish that nothing had changed between us –at all. Then we wouldn't be in a mess."

"Oh, I don't know," he said, mustering a faint smile. "I think we had a lot of fun."

Being with him _was_ fun. But it was scary, too -at least for me. The truth was, I had a different idea of what being with Greg was going to be like. I thought our encounters would be strictly reduced to sex –at his place or at some anonymous motel. I could picture us having a quick meal together now and then, or even going to the movies, but that was as far as I envisioned myself going with him.

But his plans were slightly different. Before I knew it, he was introducing me to his family and his friends, and it suddenly dawned on me that I was in a _Relationship_ and that I was expected to reciprocate.

I didn't.

I let him come to my place -as a sort of compensation, I guess. He was placated –no; he was flattered. Grateful, even. I'd opened my home to him –surely, it was a significant gesture from me.

What he didn't know was that having him there made me uneasy, and that I needed to keep an eye on him at all times.

"You know…" Greg said now, "We could give it a try again, Grissom. I mean… It was only a break, not a break-up. And _I_'d try not to screw things up this time."

"It wasn't your fault." I said.

"It's got to be someone's," Greg replied, "And no, I'm not blaming you." He added. "I was going too fast, I can see that now."

It wasn't his fault. Greg was more than willing to accommodate my quirks. He gave me all the space I needed, and yet I kept demanding more and more, until one day he looked at me and said, "_You know what? Maybe we should take a break."_

I briefly closed my eyes, just like I did every time I recalled that moment. I still remembered the look in his eyes, too: There was hope in it. Greg, the eternal optimist really thought I would say something like '_no, wait, we can make this work,'_ something that could save our relationship. Instead, I simply said, "_Yeah, maybe." _

At the time, it seemed the right thing to say. In my mind, we were headed to a break-up anyway; it seemed that prolonging the inevitable would only make things messier in the end. I thought I was salvaging the best part of what Greg and me had: our working relationship.

But of course, it wasn't that simple. After the break-up, our relationship as coworkers grew stilted and awkward. There was no easy camaraderie between us anymore, no playful banter. I started to avoid him and after a while, I simply started sending him on the field with Sara.

Sara, who knew about Greg and me.

Sara, who acknowledged our relationship by extending us a Valentine's Day invitation. She simply wanted us to join her and Warrick for a quiet celebration, but her invitation went unheeded because I couldn't be open about that part of my life, yet. I never would.

Sara forgave me then, but she didn't forgive me for hurting Greg. She didn't say anything, but I could tell she was disappointed on me. But that was nothing new.

"It wasn't your fault," I repeated.

"Ah, it doesn't matter whose fault it was," he said dismissively, "What matters is that we learned something from this, don't you think?"

_I_ learned that loving someone wasn't enough to keep a relationship going.

Tiredly, I sat back in my chair. I didn't want to talk about this anymore. But I wanted to make amends. I wished there was something I could do for Greg, or something I could give him.

And then I remembered that I did have something for him.

I opened up a file.

"You know that singer that Wallace was working for? Joslyn Raines?" I glanced at Greg, "I met her, the other day."

His eyes widened.

"You did?"

"Yeah," I said smugly, "In fact, I managed to get her autograph." I picked up a sheet of paper, "I thought you might like to have it."

I was stretching the truth, but he didn't seem to doubt my word. He eagerly took the paper and examined the signature.

"Wow, this is great, Grissom." He glanced mischievously at me, "I wonder how much this could get me on E-bay…"

"Hey, if you sell it, I want half," I replied, "I had to beg her for it, you know."

He smiled and, once again, I found myself smiling back. It felt like old times.

We were still looking at each other, when I got a call.

It was Det. Vartann, with news about a robbery. I immediately paged Warrick and then I rose to leave.

Greg rose, too.

"Can I come?" he asked eagerly.

"You're not on call tonight." I pointed out. "You've been up for what –fifteen, sixteen hours?"

"So?" he replied, "Oh, come on. Let me come along. Who knows? Maybe this time my psychic powers will kick in and help you solve the case."

I looked at him. He was still smiling.

I should have pulled rank and forced him to go home, but all I could think of was how much I'd missed him, and how much I was enjoying the return of our old friendship.

I suppose I was afraid that if I let him go, our tenuous truce would come to an end.

So, instead of sending him home, I smiled reluctantly and said, "All right," thus starting the chain of events that led to a nightmare.

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TBC


	2. Chapter 2

A DIFFERENT DILEMMA

Spoiler: All for our Country (Fromanski's threats, and Gil's use of a gun) Chaos Theory (a butterfly bats its wings…)

This is more of a Gil story, though the ending will be a happy GG.

* * *

A DIFFERENT DILEMMA

Part two

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TWELVE HOURS LATER

"Are you ok?"

I glanced at Brass.

He hadn't spoken a word since he'd offered to give me a lift. At first, I thought he was simply giving me some space; then I wondered whether he was simply following protocol. After all, Internal Affairs was already on the case; the least Brass and me talked, the better it would be for him –and maybe for me, too.

Whatever his reasons, I appreciated the silence.

But now that we were finally in front of the Police Department, he'd turned and spoken to me, in a tone that was both compassionate and probing. He probably wanted to know if I'd be able to keep it together for the next few hours.

"I'm fine." I muttered.

"It'll be over before you know it." He said gently. "They only -"

But I didn't want to talk. I got out of the car and started towards the building. Whatever it was going to happen, I wanted it to be over with.

When I stepped into the lobby, every cop in there turned and looked in my direction. Conversations ceased, and suddenly, the only sounds around me came from unanswered phones and unattended fax machines.

It wasn't the first time something like this happened; I'd been at odds with the PD now and then, especially after the misunderstanding with officer Fromanski. This time, however, they weren't looking at me with veiled dislike or outright contempt.

This time they all moved as one and broke into applause.

And this was worse than being the subject of their disdain.

It was fortunate that Brass had finally caught on with me, because otherwise I may have stood there without knowing where to turn to.

"Come on," Brass said, steering me towards one of the elevators.

Once the doors closed behind us, I leant against the wall and took a deep breath.

I glanced at Brass.

"Why did they do that?" I asked.

"They're grateful." Brass said.

I shook my head.

"Gil." He said. "You saved a life, today. That's the important thing here."

If only it were so simple.

"I'm serious," he said. The doors of the elevator opened, but before we stepped into the hallway, Brass turned to me and said, "It's the one thing you've got remember, no matter what happens in there."

And he tilted his head towards the door at the end of the hall.

The office of the Internal Affairs Detective that I was to meet.

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Internal Affairs Detective Don Morrison was there to meet us, and after making it clear that Brass' presence was not necessary, he led me to an interrogation room.

James Hall, another I.A. Detective, was already there, fiddling with the recorder he'd set on the table in the middle of the room.

"Take a seat, Dr. Grissom." Morrison said, motioning me towards the one chair that faced the one-way mirror.

I involuntarily glanced at the mirror, wondering if there was anyone on the other side, witnessing this moment. But seeing my own reflection threw me off for a minute. I didn't want to be looking at myself.

I studiously glanced away.

Morrison and Hall seemed to be taking too long to start the interrogation, and this only made me conscious of my surroundings.

I'd been in dozens of interrogation rooms like this as part of my job, but I'd never realized how glaring the light was, for instance. Or how hopeless it felt, to be sitting there, waiting for the interrogation to begin.

For half my life I'd sat on the side of the law, listening to people tell their stories. Some of them were telling the truth, and yet how many times did I remain skeptical until the evidence cleared them? For the first time, I'd know what if felt like, to be viewed under suspicion.

Hall finally finished with the recorder. He and Morrison took the seats opposite mine, and Morrison started the recording, stating our names and ranks, the date and the exact hour.

Morrison looked up at me.

"Dr. Grissom," he said solemnly, "We are here to establish the facts concerning -"

But the door opened, effectively interrupting Morrison's opening line. Ecklie stood there.

Impatiently, Morrison stopped the recorder.

"Ever heard of knocking, Ecklie?"

"Detective Morrison," Ecklie greeted amiably, "Detective Hall." He added. He closed the door behind him and then he came over to stand beside me, "You were not going to start this interview without a CSI representative, were you?"

"This is a friendly conversation, Conrad."

"Good," he said pulling a chair and setting it next to me, "I'm glad I came, then." He sat and then he leant towards me, "I've just been to the hospital." He said, "The guys are doing fine."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak at that point.

Conrad looked up at the detectives.

"So," he said, "Where were we?"

"We were about to start," Morrison said. He spoke into the recorder, to indicate that the Assistant Director had joined us. "We are here to establish the facts concerning the shooting of an unidentified man -"

Morrison stated the facts as he knew them: An unidentified man had entered a secured crime scene where three CSI's were conducting an investigation. The man had threatened two of the CSIs, and a few minutes later, he was shot and killed.

By me.

Morrison looked at me again.

"Dr. Grissom." He said cordially, "Would you please tell us what happened."

I cleared my throat.

"The man was pointing the gun at -"

"Please, start at the beginning, sir." Hall intervened.

I hesitated. I truly didn't know what to say.

"Dr. Grissom?"

Ecklie came to the rescue.

"Maybe you should start by telling us about the call."

Morrison stopped the recording.

"Conrad," He said in a warning tone.

Ecklie backed down.

Hall restarted the recording.

"Dr. Grissom, please tell us everything from the start."

"We got a call -" I started.

"Is that the beginning?" Hall said skeptically.

This time, it was Ecklie who stopped the recording.

"Give him a break," Ecklie said, "You want a description of what happened and you'll have it. Just don't use the bad cop/scumbag routine with him, al right?"

They haggled over the way the interrogation was being conducted but I didn't listen. I was thinking of Det. Hall's words, and how he might be right. Maybe my story didn't start with the call.

A series of events had culminated in a death just a few hours before, and I really didn't know where to pinpoint the beginning.

Maybe it started when I took over last night's shift as a favor to Catherine, who wanted to stay home with her daughter; or maybe it started when I agreed to bring Greg along on an investigation, even though it was his night off -

But I stopped that line of thought; assigning Greg to the case was simply one in a string of mistakes that I'd made in connection with him: The first one was to start a relationship with him, and the other was to break it up.

I regretted those mistakes, but I refused to believe that something that had made me happy for a little while could have led us to this mess.

It was easier to hold on to the belief that somewhere along the way a butterfly had batted its wings, setting a chain reaction that had ended up changing our lives irrevocably.

Morrison restarted the recording and looked up to me.

"Dr. Grissom?"

"We got a call at about eleven-thirty," I said, more assuredly this time. "A robbery."

I proceeded to tell them the facts: A house at a secluded part of town had been burglarized. The owners had returned from a party to find the doors open and several art pieces missing. They didn't investigate further; they were afraid of what they might find –a murdered maid, for instance.

By the time CSI was called, it was established that the maid was nowhere inside the house, and that she might be an accomplice.

When Warrick, Greg, and me arrived, there was only a police officer keeping guard outside.

We entered the house. Warrick took over the dining room while Greg took care of the study. I took a look at the rooms upstairs. When I didn't see any evidence of the burglars' presence there, I went downstairs and started working on the hallway.

At some point during the investigation, I realized that I didn't have enough fluorescent powder-

"Why was that?" Morrison interrupted.

"I rarely use fluorescent powder," I said, "But due to the type of surface I was working on, I decided that fluorescent powder might work better than black; I didn't have enough -"

"CSI's are supposed to keep their kits well-stocked, aren't they?"

"Yes." I admitted.

"So, why didn't you -"

"CSI's run out of supplies," Ecklie interrupted in a slightly patronizing tone, "It's no big deal. That's why they keep extra supplies in the car."

Morrison shot Ecklie a look but didn't say anything.

He was right; I should have had enough powder in my kit. But lately I'd been… distracted, so to speak.

"I went to my car to restock." I continued, "I was about to go back to the house, when I realized that I hadn't seen the police officer."

I wasn't alarmed at the time; the cop could be somewhere close, simply taking a leak (it was not unheard of); but I thought I'd make sure.

I found him behind some bushes. His head had been bashed in and he was barely breathing. I immediately called Brass.

Morrison interrupted my account.

"Why didn't you call Police Dispatch?"

"I thought I'd get help faster by calling Jim Brass." I said.

Calling Brass had been the natural thing for me to do; after Fromanski's veiled threats, I didn't trust police to answer a request from me. But I didn't tell Morrison this.

"Detective Brass warned me about the possibility that the perp might still be in the vicinity; maybe even inside the house."

After I hung up, I mechanically reached for my gun and went back to the house. Only, instead of going in, I walked around the perimeter, glancing into each window.

"When I looked into the dining room, I saw CSI Brown pointing his gun at someone. And unidentified man -"

I faltered a little when I got to this point or my narrative, but I forced myself to go ahead. As long as I simply stated the facts, I'd be able to tell the rest.

"The man had grabbed CSI Greg Sanders from behind," I said, "He had a hold on Greg's neck, and was using him as a shield. He, ah, had a gun in his other hand. He was pointing it at Greg's temple."

I paused as I remembered the scene. The man was only slightly taller than Greg but was heavily muscled and looked huge in comparison. Greg was desperately clawing at the arm around his neck but could do very little harm since the man was wearing a coarse leather jacket.

I took a deep breath and continued.

"I think CSI Brown was pleading with the man to let Greg go -"

"Dr. Grissom, if you please," Hall intervened, "Tell us only what you did."

I hesitated.

The truth was, I didn't remember much of what I did after I saw the perp manhandling Greg. From the moment I saw them, rage fueled my every movement. I didn't remember anything clearly until the moment when I pointed my gun at the man and fired.

All I could do was tell them what could be backed up by the evidence: That I'd silently entered the house, crossed the hallway and reached the dining room, where I clearly heard the man threatening to shoot Greg unless Warrick threw his gun and moved out of the way.

"CSI Brown put his gun down, but he was still blocking the man's getaway. The man then pointed the gun at Warrick, but Greg managed to grab at the man's arm, and the bullet hit a wall," I gulped, "That's when I fired my gun."

Hall handed me a sheet of paper.

"Could you tell us where you were standing when you shot this man?"

I looked down at the diagram. I recognized Warrick's handwriting. He'd done a preliminary sketch of the dining room and pinpointed the places where he and Greg had stood. He'd also marked the kitchen door, which was the route the perp had chosen for his escape.

I unhesitatingly pointed at the spot where I had stood watching the scene unfold.

Hall took the paper back and studied it.

"Did you issue a warning before you shot this man?" Morrison asked.

"Excuse me?"

"Did you ask him to surrender his weapon?"

The idea hadn't occurred to me. I saw the man threatening to kill my guys -I wasn't about to ask him to surrender.

I shook my head.

"I didn't," I said. "I didn't think he would have listened at that point."

Ecklie didn't move, but I felt the tension rising from him. It was the wrong answer.

"I have a problem with your story, Dr. Grissom." Hall said, "Do you expect us to believe that you got a clean shot from that distance? At the man's temple?" he paused, "You were on the other side of the room."

I looked down at the diagram. I was telling the truth but it was obvious that Hall didn't believe me.

"Did you shoot him while he was on his own, ready to surrender?"

Hall's question was so ludicrous I didn't even feel indignant at the suggestion he was making. I met his gaze unwaveringly.

"No." I said.

Morrison intervened then.

"What did you do after you shot this man?"

"I surrendered my gun to CSI Brown." I replied, "As CSI in charge, he instructed me to leave the scene and wait for the police. I waited outside."

It wasn't the complete truth, of course, and I could only hope they wouldn't ask if I had said anything to Greg.

And they didn't. After a brief pause, Morrison asked the next question.

"Why did you take CSI Sanders with you? He was off duty last night."

I hesitated.

"Well?"

"He'd never investigated a robbery of this magnitude." I said. "I thought the experience would be beneficial."

This was an outright lie, but they didn't seem to notice.

"He must have been exhausted after working a fifteen-hour shift, Dr. Grissom." Morrison continued, "How efficient could he be under those circumstances?"

"I was confident that he'd do a good job," I replied.

"Yet he was so tired that he didn't notice that a stranger was in the vicinity." Morrison replied.

Ecklie snorted.

"You're blaming Sanders for being assaulted?"

Morrison ignored the interruption.

"Would you say that making him come along was the right decision, Dr. Grissom?"

"Morrison," Ecklie said, "I am sure that on hindsight we all regret some of the decisions we make. Dr. Grissom made a sound decision at the time."

But Morrison was right. I'd made the wrong decision. I'd brought Greg into the case just because he'd asked me to. And because I'd been feeling lonely.

But I didn't have time to dwell on this; Hall spoke again.

"You're a scientist, Dr. Grissom," he said, "You're not a cop."

"Is there a question, there?" Ecklie asked morosely.

"I have a point to make," Hall replied evenly, "Dr. Grissom, even an experienced cop would have hesitated before shooting someone from this distance."

I glanced at the diagram again.

Hall leant forward.

"Did you shoot him while he was already down -"

"I told you what I did." I replied calmly.

"That can be easily verified, Detective," Ecklie said, "The point of entry will show you whether the deceased was down or not. Besides, Sanders had high-velocity spatter on his neck and head: blood and brain material that obviously came from the perp's. Sanders was obviously standing close to the suspect."

Hall was looking at me.

"You didn't hesitate to shoot, even though CSI Sanders was standing just a few inches away?"

I took a deep breath. I'd been trying to put those images out of my head. Now I was being forced to remember the shooting, and how the perp fell, taking Greg down with him, making it unclear whether I'd hit him or Greg. And Greg's head was covered in blood -

I felt a wave of nausea, but I forced myself to hold it back. I was not going to break down there-

"Isn't it true that you could have missed?" Hall added.

"That's enough," Conrad said, and once again the three of them argued over the way they were handling the interrogation.

I could have missed. God, I could have. I just didn't think of that possibility at the time. I didn't _think_, that was all.

In other circumstances, I would have probably warned the perp and tried to reason with him. I would have pointed my gun at a less vulnerable part of his body, too. Or I would have waited to see if Greg and Warrick could subdue the man.

Instead, I'd simply pointed my gun and fired.

But that wasn't the point of Hall's question.

I could have missed. I could have killed someone else.

I could have killed-

But I didn't want to think of it. I bit into my cheek until it bled, and the pain distracted me. I gulped down a little blood. After a moment, I put an end to their discussion.

"Yes." I conceded. "I could have missed."

Conrad put a hand on my arm.

"That's enough." he muttered. He turned to the detectives, "Gentlemen," he said, "I think we're through. If you want to talk about what could have happened, then let me remind you that two CSI's could have died today. And a police officer, too." he added for effect.

"Ecklie-"

"You have Dr. Grissom's statement," Ecklie said, "The evidence will bear him out. And if it doesn't, we'll convene here again. Until then… Is there anything else we can do for you?"

His tone was plain enough; as far as he was concerned, there was nothing more to discuss.

But Morrison insisted on having the last word.

"We will be in touch," He said. "Until we clear this matter, you are not to have any contact with the CSIs involved in this case, Dr. Grissom. We would also appreciate it if you'd stay away from the CSI lab, too."

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Ecklie was waiting for me in the hallway.

I reluctantly joined him. I didn't want to be grateful -I didn't want to feel that I owed him anything. But he didn't even let me speak.

"Dr. Pierce is waiting for you," he said. The PD shrink. "She came over as soon as she heard. She's waiting in your office," he added, and I had the feeling that they had planned it this way, to stop me from finding some excuse not to go to her office.

"I'll tell Catherine to take over you pending cases." Ecklie said, "Talk to her and then go home. IA will clear you in a couple of days, but until then you're not to come near the building."

We took the elevator reserved for the top brass. I was glad; this way we wouldn't have to make a stop at the PD lobby.

"I'll keep an eye on Sanders." Ecklie said. "He'll have some difficulty talking for the next few days -"

I knew; there was a moment when I thought the man would crush Greg's throat.

"He will be sporting some large bruises, too -" Ecklie added, "But I think he will be fine."

The elevator stopped and the doors opened. He got out.

"We'll be in touch." he said.

I paused for a second.

"Thank you." I said.

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TBC


	3. Chapter 3

A DIFFERENT DILEMMA

Part three

You don't need to read "Dilemma", but you should know that in that story, Greg's former boyfriend Dennis was hoping to get Greg back. You should also know that Greg's older sister Karen hated Grissom from the beginning and made no secret of it.

Killing someone must be traumatic for anyone; for Gil it would be devastating.

* * *

It wasn't until almost noon that I was finally able to talk to Catherine. 

She clearly didn't know what to say. She had never had any trouble voicing any thought that came to her mind, but we just had never been in a situation like this before.

In the end, she opted for the easiest opening:

"You ok?" she asked.

"Ten." I said.

She frowned.

"Ten?"

"You're the tenth person who's asked me that." Between Brass and her, there'd been Dr. Pierce and Albert, and a few text-messages that I'd read before putting my cell in a back pocket. I changed the subject by motioning her to sit.

There were several stacks of files on my desk and I put my hand on the tallest one, "These are the investigations that the night shift is currently handling," I said,

She sat down and quietly listened while I explained what each pile meant. One for reports, one for autopsies to review, and so forth and so forth.

She interrupted me before I finished my explanation.

"Gil? It's only a three-day suspension, not a six-week vacation, you know."

My lack of response alarmed her.

"You're not thinking of taking a six-week vacation, are you?"

I hesitated before answering.

"I'll need more than just a few days off, Catherine. Sorry."

"Hey, don't apologize," she said quickly, "It's all right. I understand. It's just..." she shook her head, trying to find the right words, "What are you going to do with all that free time in your hands? I mean, if you're simply going to hole up for a whole month..."

"I'm going to be fine."

"Sure, you are." she said slowly. She sighed. "Gil… I'd be lying if I said I knew what you're going through... And I'm sure you'll find something to comfort you for the next weeks -philosophy, religion... books... But if you ever start to feel that the world is going mad around you... then give me a call. That's something I can help you with."

I smiled despite myself.

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I left the lab after talking to Catherine. I didn't want to go home yet, and so I drove aimlessly for half an hour. Before long, however, I turned and drove to the hospital.

I knew I shouldn't, but I had to make sure that Greg was ok. The last time I saw him, he was huddling in the back of an ambulance while an EMT performed a perfunctory examination on him, (the real action was with the fallen officer, who had about four people working on him).

I knew the perp hadn't shot Greg, and yet, I was afraid that his injuries might be more serious than everybody had led me to believe. I knew I wouldn't be able to see him, but I was willing to settle for a medical report.

At the reception I found that my CSI credentials gave me access to Greg's medical chart but only if I signed a request. Wary of leaving written proof of my presence at the hospital, I decided to wait in case the doctor in charge came to the nurse station.

I was waiting, when suddenly, someone pulled me to a side. Sara.

Of course. She must have come down to the hospital the minute she got the news. Warrick and Greg were the most cherished men in her life.

"Grissom!" she hissed, "What are you doing here?"

"Sara -"

She was glancing around.

"You're not supposed to be here-" she interrupted, "A guy from I.A. was here a while ago, and he said -"

"I know." I said. I took a deep breath, "I just… I just wanted to -" I didn't finish, but she seemed to understand. She gently led me to a nearby visitors' room. There were several people there, but their attention was on a TV set .

"I needed to be here." I said.

She patted my arm.

"You needed to see for yourself that Greg is ok," she said.

I nodded, and it suddenly occurred to me that she probably knew exactly how I felt. She knew me too well.

Her concern turned into sadness.

"Oh, Grissom," she sighed, and to my surprise, she wrapped her arms around me. "Thank you," She whispered in my ear.

People rarely ever touch me, and since the shooting no one had even come close enough to shake my hand. To have Sara hug me was just too much to bear, and for a moment I was afraid that I was going to break down.

"Thank you," she repeated, "For saving them."

Her gratitude made me uncomfortable. It was almost as bad as getting that standing ovation.

"God, it's awful, isn't it?" she whispered. "Having people thank you for something you didn't want to do." She pulled back to look at me, "But you saved Warrick and Greg. I can't help being grateful, Grissom."

She released me, but she kept her eyes on me.

"I know how difficult this must be for you."

"I'm fine," I said hoarsely.

She knew I wasn't, but she didn't say anything. She only touched my arm in a comforting manner.

"I saw Greg a half hour ago." she said, "Apart from some minor damage to his vocal chords, he's physically ok. He was a little agitated but the doctors said it was a normal reaction. Delayed shock, they called it," she paused for a moment, "He... he had to be sedated. He kept trying to talk," she looked at me, "Kept asking about you."

I leant on a wall. Suddenly, I felt very tired.

"He was worried," she said.

"He was worried about _me_?"

"Yes." she said, "He knew this had to be difficult for you, He _knows,_ you Grissom."

"So do you," I said softly. I looked at the floor. "I made such a mess, Sara. And I'm not talking about last night."

"Grissom... You have the rest of your life to make amends."

I only shook my head.

"You do," she said reassuringly.

I looked at her and noticed the worry in her eyes.

It suddenly dawned on me that I, too, was a cherished man in her life.

I didn't know what to say; I really didn't deserve her loyalty.

"By the way," she said in a lighter tone, "I talked to Warrick a while ago; he says that everyone from the night shift reported for duty the minute they found out. They say they're not leaving the building until they put it all together -the robbery, the assault -"

Everything was under control. It was a sudden realization: they didn't need me. There was nothing for me to do but wait for others to clear up the mess I'd made.

I smiled faintly at her.

"I guess I better leave, then." I said, "The last thing you need is me, complicating matters with I.A."

She didn't contradict me.

"We'll work it out," Sara said reassuringly. "We'll be taking turns coming to the hospital. I'll try to stay until Greg wakes up. The minute he does, I'll let him know you were here."

-----------------------------

I went back to my car , but I couldn't stand the idea of going home, and so I simply sat there, wondering what to do.

I was staring at nothing in particular, when a familiar figure crossed my line of vision. A tall, blond man carrying a tasteful flower arrangement.

Dennis. Psychologist Dennis Pratt, Greg's former boyfriend.

The man who, only a few months back, had quietly predicted that I would screw things up with Greg.

I still remembered his self-satisfied smirk as he said that all he had to do was wait. He went on to say that I'd inevitably find myself unable to cope with the relationship; "And when that happens," he said, "I'll step back into Greg's life."

Now, I sat watching as Dennis stood on the sidewalk, waiting for traffic to slow down.

He didn't once look in my direction and even if he'd had, all he would have seen was the reflection of the sun on the car window. It suddenly occurred to me that if I were a sniper, then I'd be in a perfect spot to take Dennis down.

For second, I imagined that I was holding a gun, and that I was aiming it at Dennis. Then I imagined that I was calling out to him, only to pull the trigger the minute he turned in my direction.

I knew the damage that a bullet in his chest could do; I could visualize the trajectory of the bullet as it tore into the skin and the muscles, bouncing from one rib to another until it found a cozy nest inside Dennis' heart. I could visualize the spatter, staining his arrogant face with bloody freckles…

I exhaled. I'd been holding my breath while I indulged in those thoughts; I was shaking, and had to grab the steering wheel to get a hold of myself. I closed my eyes and took a couple of deep breaths.

There was no sense of triumph in thinking I could kill Dennis. There was only shame and despair as I suddenly realized how killing a man had changed me. I'd pulled a trigger, and now I found it easy to indulge in thoughts of violence. The old Gil Grissom would have deplored this.

I opened my eyes and saw Dennis cross the street. He radiated confidence as he took the steps to the hospital two at the time.

Defeated, I leant back in my seat.

There was no use in hating Dennis. He hadn't done anything except work out a prediction out of the evidence he'd collected from me. It was all my doing.

All I could do now was watch Dennis as he stepped into the hospital… and into Greg's life.

Finally, I had a reason to leave.

* * *

As I drove back home, I envisioned going inside and shutting the door on the world. It was not to be. When I drove into my driveway, I saw Karen, Greg's older sister pacing up and down the sidewalk, waiting for me. 

I was taken aback at first; I didn't want to see anyone, least of all Karen, who had made no secret of her dislike for me.

And yet, the more I thought of it, the more I realized that talking to Karen was exactly what I needed at the moment. After the pitying looks and quiet reassurances I'd been getting all day, Karen was the one person who'd put things into the right perspective: I'd put her brother in unnecessary danger, and that was the truth.

She was bound to be angry at me, and she would probably start screaming, the minute I got out of my car.

Good.

But she didn't do that. She quietly waited for me to walk up to her.

Her eyes were reddish and swollen, and her lips were trembling with unspent emotion.

Her voice didn't rise above a whisper.

"I- I'd like to talk to you." she said meekly.

"Yes," I said, motioning her to come along with me. I opened the door and let her in. I was sure she would start screaming the minute I closed the door behind us, but she ended up doing the one thing I would have never anticipated: She hugged me.

I automatically put my arms around her. She felt thin and small, and she was shaking. Concerned, I pulled back just enough to look into her face.

"Karen?"

She immediately pushed away from me. She seemed embarrassed by her emotional outburst.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, roughly wiping the wetness off her cheeks. "God, you must hate displays like this." she added with a nervous scoff.

She stood with her arms hanging by her sides but it seemed she couldn't take the sudden emptiness, and so she crossed them tightly around herself.

I ushered her into the living room and motioned her to sit.

I waited for her to say something, but all she did was take deep breaths. She clearly wanted to get back in control, but it was a losing battle. In the end, she covered her face with one hand and started to cry.

Awkwardly, I sat beside her and put my arm around her shoulders.

"Karen, he's going to be all right." I said, and it occurred to me that I was not only reassuring her but myself, too.

I needed to believe that Greg would pull through and recover from this.

He _had_ to.

She made a visible effort to put herself together.

She dropped her hand and looked at me.

"God, you must think I'm crazy."

"No." I said gently, "I understand. He's your brother." I wished I had something comforting to say, "Listen," I said, "I've just been to the hospital. They told me he's doing ok."

"I know." she replied, "I was there a while ago myself." She took a deep breath, "He couldn't talk but he managed to tell me what you did for him."

I looked down.

"I know how you feel," she whispered. She reached for my hand, "This must go against every belief you've ever held," she said with surprising insight.

I didn't say anything, and she quickly withdrew her hand.

"Greg's so worried about you," she said. "Kept asking me to make sure you were ok -" she smiled faintly, "He made me promise I'd come."

"I appreciate that." I said with difficulty. I couldn't hold her grateful gaze for much longer, and I rose and went to the kitchen. I brought her a glass of water.

She took the glass and took a little sip -out of courtesy, maybe.

She looked down at the glass in her hands.

"I haven't been nice to you, have I?" she asked, but didn't wait for me to answer. "In fact, I've been pretty odious."

I didn't say anything.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I'ts just -"

I didn't want to hear this.

"Karen, it's ok," I interrupted, "You were only protecting him -"

To my surprise, she laughed bitterly.

"That's what everybody thinks of me, right?" she said, "That I'm protective of him –my little brother." she shook her head. "Oh, God, it's such a joke -"

She shook her head. After a moment, she looked at me again, and now there was a hardness in her manner that was closer to the way she'd always been.

"The truth is, I've been a horrible sister to him, Gil." She said. She kept her gaze on me, as if waiting for my reaction. I didn't say anything, and after a moment, she continued, "I used to torture him," she said, "Not physically." She was quick to add, "Emotionally."

She couldn't hold my gaze any longer. She rose abruptly, and for a moment, she kept her back to me.

"We lost our dad too soon, you know?" she said, "Gregory was two and I was six when he died. My brother didn't really notice dad's absence, but I did." she paused for a moment. "I remembered."

She turned. She looked in my direction, but for some reason she wouldn't look at me in the face.

"I had memories of dad but Gregory had none, so -" she took a deep breath, " I would tell him about dad," she said, "I'd give him little bits of information -just enough to whet his appetite- and then I would stop. When Gregory begged me to continue, I would simply say, 'If you do this, or do that, then _maybe _I'll tell you more.'"

There was a faraway look in her eyes as she continued, "I made him do my chores in exchange of my stories. It was blackmail, but to him, it was all like a game; he seemed truly happy to do my chores. He was such a good-natured kid..." She paused, "Me, I was a bitter child. Jealous." She bit her lip before adding, "I was an angry child, Gil. I was angry at the world, and I… I took it out on Gregory."

"I guess his being so sweet and happy only made it worse," she added, "In time, I began to withhold my stories, even after he'd done what I wanted. He would wash the dishes or whatever I'd asked him to do, and then I would say, 'oh, now I won't tell you anything!' And his tears wouldn't move me."

She glanced at me, and this time I had the feeling that she was daring me to react.

I had to make an effort _not _to do just that. I remained outwardly impassive, but deep inside I was blown away by how much I hated her at the moment. I didn't move or say anything, and after a moment she continued.

"Fortunately, my grandmother intervened." she said. "She got me some help."

She turned, and this time she looked at me in the eye.

"When Gregory announced that he was gay, I was afraid that it was my fault -that I'd somehow put him off women. I still wonder -" she added wearily. "But I was supportive -it was the least I could do, right?" she smiled ironically.

I didn't reply.

She sighed, "I let him be. I never said anything, not even when he got involved with that psychologist prick. But when he got involved with you... I couldn't remain silent anymore. I told him all sort of things -horrible things. I told him he was simply looking for someone to replace dad..." she let her voice trail off.

"I argued with him; tried to put you down. And all along, he just smiled at me. He'd let me rave, and then he'd simply shrug and say that he loved you -that he was happy. And I could tell that he was, but I... I still made things difficult for you two. I'm sorry, Gil." she whispered, "I didn't know you loved him this much."

There was a lot to process from that statement, but my first thought was that Greg had not told her anything about our break-up.

We were silent for a moment.

"He thinks it's his fault -what happened last night." she said.

"It wasn't." I said.

"But would you forgive him, if it was?" she asked anxiously.

"There's nothing to forgive -"

"Gil," she interrupted, "If he feels responsible, then you'll have to talk to him. He will need some reassurance. Will you give it to him? Please."

"All right." I said.

She sat down again. 'Collapse' would be a more precise term for what she did. She seemed completely exhausted.

I didn't know what to say. I knew that the old Gil Grissom -the one she met all those months ago- would have found something comforting to say. He would have spurted a few platitudes, quoted something from Shakespeare, maybe.

But I didn't feel like comforting her, not after what she'd done to Greg.

And yet... I couldn't be cruel to her.

After all, _I_ had hurt her brother, too.

"You know..." I said, "He's always told me how you used to get into fights because of him."

She looked up.

"At school," I added, "When the older kids would bully him, you would step in and defend him."

She smiled.

"He told you that?"

"Yes," I said. "He's grateful for that. He looks up to you, Karen."

The corners of her mouth tilted down. She was going to cry again, but she got a hold of herself.

"He needs you now." I said.

She nodded. She took a deep breath, as if to fortify herself for what was to come.

"I guess I'd better go back -" she said.

She rose.

"Do you need anything?" I asked, rising too. "A lift -"

"No, it's ok. I drove here." she glanced at me. She hesitated, "I... hum..."

She didn't know what to say now. She had hugged me, but now that her emotional outburst had receded, she couldn't even offer me her hand.

"Can I give you some books for him?" I asked suddenly.

"Oh. Good."

I picked the top books on my coffee table; I doubted that Greg would want to read about insects in South Africa, but it was all I had on hand, and she took them willingly. There was so little we could really do for Greg, that we were both grasping at straws.

She took the books and hugged them against her chest.

I opened the door for her and held it while she stepped outside. She glanced at me.

"He said you could not go to the hospital until Internal Affairs cleared you-"

"Yes."

"Do you want me to tell him anything?"

I hesitated. There were lots of things I should tell Greg... but in the end I shook my head.

"I'll call him later."

"All right." she smiled.

But as she stepped away, all I could think was how better off Greg would be if I didn't talk to him.

Ever.

------------------------------------

TBC

Thank you for reviewing...


	4. Chapter 4

A DIFFERENT DILEMMA

Part four

If you haven't read Dilemma, then all you need to know is that Greg calls his grandma 'Mama Asty'.

I'm disgusted with myself; a whole month and all I can come up with is one measly chapter?

* * *

I closed the door and stared into my darkened living room. 

My home was quiet and gloomy, qualities that I'd valued in the past but that now felt oppressive. It was too quiet and too dark, and I didn't want to be there.

At some point I started taking deep breaths, which was a ritual of mine. Whenever the horrors I faced at my job came close to overwhelm me, I came home and closed the door and spent a few minutes focusing on the simple task of breathing. Little by little I was able to regain some sort of balance, and every stressful thought faded away from my mind –at least for a while.

It didn't work out that day. How could it? I'd killed someone. How could I even hope that closing a door and taking a few breaths would help me overlook that fact? There was a man lying on a slab at the morgue, and I'd put him there. If he'd been already identified, then his family probably knew by now, which meant that somewhere there was a mother quietly grieving for her son. Or a wife, trying to comfort her fatherless kids -

Tears blurred my sight and I blinked them back, almost angrily. I'd never let my emotions take over, and I was not about to start.

I almost wished I'd asked Karen to stay a while longer. Uncomfortable as it was, having her weeping in my living room was better than being left alone with my thoughts.

Thinking of her reminded me of her confession. Mama Asty had told me once about Karen's propensity for nasty acts against insects, but I never thought she'd be cruel to her own brother too. I still had some trouble believing it; Greg had always spoken fondly of her. He had obviously forgiven her.

I wanted to be angry at her for the things she'd done to Greg, but couldn't. I couldn't even resent her for trying to interfere in our relationship –she wasn't the only one who'd tried, anyway. Some of Greg's friends had made it clear they didn't want me around, either.

I couldn't be angry at any of them because, no matter what they did or said, it never made any difference to Greg. He'd stuck by me.

The thought filled me with remorse.

The truth was, I never do much to deserve his loyalty. Karen may have been a horrible sister but I was a lousy boyfriend. She'd tried to make it up to him, at least. Me, I'd wasted every chance I'd had.

All I could do now was think of the things I should have done for him but failed to, words I could have said, gifts I could have given him… places we could have gone to but didn't because I said 'no' so often, he just stopped asking. That I had my reasons, (we just couldn't afford to be seen together in public), didn't really matter; deep down, I knew I could have found a way. Saying 'no' was just so much easier.

Not that saying 'yes' would have kept us from breaking up. The real problem between Greg and me was that I could never let my guard down. All through our relationship I watched over everything I said and everything I revealed about me. It got to a point where I would hardly say anything. Silence wasn't Greg's style; he would fill in the gaps with nervous, incessant chatter... Until he grew silent, too.

Greg simply ran out of patience.

He still was the good-natured guy that Karen remembered, but he had a temper, too. If Karen thought Greg was the submissive, compliant partner in a relationship where I was the boss in all aspects (or a substitute father), then she was wrong. Greg would have never done anything just because I said so –nor would I had wanted him to; he had a strong will of his own and it was one of the things I liked about him.

We were just too different. By the time he said, "Maybe we should take a break," I didn't hesitate; I agreed. The truth was, I was relieved. I liked being with him, but I wanted things to be the way they were before, when boundaries were clearly defined between us. I was hoping we'd go back to being friends, but it was not to be. Things were just not the same.

For one thing, he knew too much about me now; and while he never used this knowledge against me, it made me uncomfortable nonetheless. There were also character traits of his that had never bothered me but I found irritating now, like the way he flirted with every female who crossed his path, or the overly friendly chats he had with Nick or Warrick.

I was jealous, plain and simple.

I never confronted Greg about this; instead, I simply avoided working with him. It was a coward's solution, to say the least. And it was unfair to Greg, who was simply being his usual, friendly self.

"I'm sorry, Greg." I whispered, and my living room was so quiet that it seemed that I was shouting the words, "I'm so sorry -" I repeated, and then I uttered one of the many terms of endearment I wanted to use when we were still together but never dared, "_Baby_."

It was a sweet word, and it felt good to be finally able to say it, even if Greg wasn't there to hear it.

Actually, after the things Karen had said earlier that day, maybe it was for the best that he'd never hear it. I didn't think he would have appreciated being called 'baby' by a man old enough to be his father.

Or maybe he wouldn't have cared?

Maybe.

Maybe he would have reacted by rubbing my cheek with his thumb, while giving me the half-amused, wholly tender smile he gave me whenever I did something out of character.

Maybe…

But I didn't want to think about that now. I shook my head, suddenly impatient with myself. This was not the right time to fantasize about the things I did or didn't do during my failed relationship with Greg. I had responsibilities, duties to perform. Warrick might have everything under control but he still needed me to put the case together.

This thought spurred me into action.

I went back to my car to get the things I'd brought from my office -personal documents, files and a small aquarium with my tarantula in it. Catherine had made a half-heartened offer to feed her for me, but I didn't know when I'd be back, and I didn't want to add to my colleague's new responsibilities.

I set the aquarium on the kitchen counter while I decided where to install it. I raised ants and spiders in a shed at the back of my house, but I didn't think my tarantula would adapt well to a crowded neighborhood.

I'd think about it later. I had other, more immediate tasks to perform, like checking on my calls and writing down an account of the events of the night before. It was standard procedure; sometimes the interrogation process failed to cover every aspect of a case, and important details could be lost if one didn't immediately set them down in writing.

I picked up my laptop and went to my living room to work.

* * *

I read the last paragraph I'd written and then I read it again. 

There was no use; I hit Delete again.

My neck had started to hurt, and I needed a break.

I looked up from the screen and realized that night had fallen, and the only light in the room came from my laptop. I'd been sitting on the couch, working diligently on my story for what felt like hours but without making any real progress. It seemed that for every two paragraphs I wrote, I deleted one.

I was having trouble with my objectivity.

Out of frustration, I put my laptop aside. I picked up my cell phone and checked on my messages again. There was no word from Warrick yet but there was yet another message from the sheriff, urging me to consider granting an interview to a reporter of his choice. 'Damage control', he called it.

I ignored him again.

I had messages from Brass, Dr. Pierce and Det. Morrison. Brass' line was busy, so I called Dr. Pierce and Detective Morrison. The doctor wanted to see me again, this time in her office. She wasn't satisfied with the way our earlier meeting had ended. She knew I'd been holding back, and I knew that she knew. She was easily placated her by my offer to see her on Monday.

Morrison, on the other hand, had some questions that couldn't wait.

He already had statements from Greg and Warrick, he said; he just wanted to make sure that he had a complete picture of the events of the night. As a token of his trust, he was willing to pose the questions on the phone.

I braced myself. If Morrison had indeed talked to Warrick and Greg, then the questions he would pose were probably of a personal nature.

But they were not. Morrison seemed more concerned about technical aspects of the case. He was particularly curious about the fact that two CSIs and an armed perp didn't hear me enter the house and approach them. Morrison had me go over my story twice before he accepted my explanation –that everything had happened fast, and that their focus was on each other, not on me.

Contrary to what I expected, Morrison didn't inquire about the emotional aspects of the case. Unlike Hall, he must have realized that emotions were Dr. Pierce's realm, not his –which was fine with me. If Morrison had brought up the matter, then I would have had to admit that my emotions had started to muddle my memories of the event.

Now, every time I pictured the shooting, I had the impression that time had stood still after I fired my gun.

In my mind, I saw Warrick's eyes bulge and Greg's mouth open up in surprise the minute they heard the shot. They stared at each other, paralyzed –no, horrified- by the possibility that one of them might be hurt.

In a split second that seemed to last into an eternity, the three of them had stood in the middle of the room -Greg and the perp, locked in an obscene embrace, with Warrick staring helplessly at them.

But movement was restored at last, and in the bloodiest form possible: the perp's head burst in a thousand fragments, and the impact caused him to fall heavily on his back, taking Greg down with him.

"Oh, man, oh, man -" Warrick groaned as he rushed to them. Both Greg and the perp were covered in blood, and Warrick must have momentarily wondered whether it was the perp's head he'd seen explode –or Greg's. There was a moment when I wondered, myself.

But I didn't tell any of this to Morrison. Instead, I stated the facts:

"After the shooting, CSI Brown kicked the man's gun out of reach, and then he kneeled down to examine their injuries. Once he made sure that CSI Sanders hadn't been shot, he helped him sit -"

There were details that I kept to myself, like the fact that the man had been holding Greg so tightly, that Warrick had to forcefully pull the arms away in order to free his friend. I didn't tell him anything about Greg's painful efforts to talk, or the look on his face when he realized that there was blood trickling down his neck.

Greg had touched the back of his head and then looked incredulously at the bloody fragments of flesh on his hands. Warrick's rushed explanation, "You're ok, man. Bullet didn't hit you," didn't help much, because by then Greg was looking at me, and the gun in my hand.

There was a look of disbelief on his face; disbelief and something else.

And it was the memory of what happened next that filled me with shame -

Morrison's voice cut into the silence.

"Dr. Grissom?" he said, "Are you ok?"

No.

I managed to tell the rest of my story –a bunch of half-truths, really. Morrison didn't notice; or maybe he did and chose not to say anything. Any inconsistencies on my story would simply be added to his report.

After he hung up, I sat with the phone in my hand. It vibrated from time to time, signaling my incoming calls, but I didn't want to talk to anyone, anymore. Finally, I put my phone aside and then I closed the laptop, shutting down the only source of light in the room.

Somehow, being in the dark made it easier to be home. Ever since my break-up with Greg, my house had stopped being the haven it once was. Now, it was here that I felt the effects of the break-up the most. Seeing Greg at the lab hurt too, but at least I had my work to keep me occupied. Here, nothing distracted me for long. and it was my damn fault, for letting him into my home.

He'd visited only twice, but he'd made a lasting impression: He changed the position of my pots and pans, thus making it impossible for me to find anything at first glance anymore; he nicked a corner of the kitchen countertop, which meant I'd either have to change the entire piece or learn to live with it; he altered the order of my CDs and my books… And so on, and so on.

And none of this was irreversible; I mean, I could rearrange my books and pans and CDs –if I ever mustered the energy to do so. It was my memories of him that I couldn't cope with. If I picked up a book or a pot, I was inevitably reminded of the mischievous look he gave me as he explained the twisted logic behind his new arrangement of my CDs and books. And if I went to the kitchen, I was reminded of his frustration when he found out that try as he might, he just couldn't put the pots and pans back the way they were before.

Being in the dark helped because then I didn't have to look at the things Greg had touched.

It usually worked, but not that night. Just sitting on the couch was enough to bring memories of him. BG (Before Greg) I would always sit in the middle of the couch, but now I was sitting in a corner, just like he'd always liked me to.

Greg never sat on a couch –he lay down. If he wanted to sit, then he simply grabbed a chair. But when we watched TV at his place, he insisted on laying down with his head on my lap –hence, my taking a corner of the couch. I didn't mind; his couch was big enough for the two of us.

My couch, on the other hand, was hard and unyielding, and too small for him to lie down with ease. I was sure that one look at it would put him off the first time he saw it, but it didn't. Even the lack of cushions didn't deter him; he simply brought a pillow from my bedroom and put it on my lap.

We'd watched a documentary like that –at least, _I _tried to watch while he stared at me, silently daring me to concentrate on the TV while he was there. I really wanted to see the show but I also wanted to look down at him. Finally, I'd tried to compromise. I lifted the hem of his t-shirt and began to rub his belly.

"Grissom?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"You're scratching my stomach." He said testily.

I looked down.

"So?"

"You think I'm a puppy or something?"

I guiltily pulled my hand away, but he caught it and put it back.

"I didn't say you had to stop." He said.

Great.

By then, it was obvious that watching TV was the last thing in my mind, so I turned it off and dropped the remote. I had better things to do with my hand, like massaging Greg's scalp, something that never failed to draw pleasurable sighs from him. It was one of his erogenous zones.

No wonder he was always trying to call attention to it with those extravagant hairstyles.

Greg's response was immediate.

"Mmmmmh, Gil -" he groaned, closing his eyes.

Encouraged by his reaction, I turned my attention back to my first objective. Caressing his flat belly wasn't enough now, and so I let my fingers thread further down, lightly touching him through the thick fabric of his jeans until they came to rest on his crotch.

I gave him a little squeeze.

He shivered.

I slowly undid the top button of his jeans and then I pulled the fly halfway down.

"May I?" I asked before moving any further.

He opened his eyes.

"Yes." he said, staring intensely at me while I slid the zipper down.

I didn't make any attempt to remove his clothes; instead, I simply slid down my hand under his boxers and firmly cupped his erection. There wasn't much room but I thought I could manage.

He wasn't so sure. He lay his hand on top of mine before I proceeded any further.

"Are you sure you wanna do this?" he asked huskily, "It's going to be hell on your CTS."

"Maybe it'll cure it." I replied.

He chuckled.

"Go on, then," He said, and then he closed his eyes again and gave in to the pleasure I was giving him.

My whole attention was on him now. With one hand on his genitals and the other caressing his face and his chest, I suddenly pictured myself as a musician –a pianist, playing a masterpiece on a Steinway.

Greg tried to sit at one point, "You, too," he said, reaching for me. But I firmly pushed him back.

"No." I said. "This is for you." I wanted it to be all about him. I wanted to see everything –the slow build-up of passion, the final explosion - reflected on his face.

And I did. I saw it and felt it too, and it was all so intense that when he came, I did, too.

We lay sprawled on the couch after that.

"That was hot," he whispered, still out of breath. When I looked at him, he gave me a lazy, sated smile. He patted the wet spot on his pants and chuckled. I thought he was going to jump and take off his jeans, but he didn't. Instead, he reached for me.

"Now, kiss me," He said, and I tugged at him until he was sitting up and leaning heavily against me. We wrapped our arms around each other and kissed and kissed until the lethargy got to us.

By the time we woke up, our necks hurt and the semen in our pants was dry and stiff. The memory of how painful it was to take off our semen-spattered boxers still made me wince, but we never complained. It was all worth it.

Now, months later, the memory of that afternoon made me smile. It was at moments like this that I almost forgave myself for getting involved with Greg. It had been unethical and it had ended disastrously, but hey, it felt right at the time. And we had fun, Greg and me. I was happy -

And it suddenly hit me, the realization that yes, I'd been happy in the relationship. And if my memories were to be trusted, Greg had been happy too.

I wished I'd told Karen about this.

I wished I'd told Greg.

I wondered what he was doing at the moment. I could easily picture him, sitting in bed, eating Jello and talking nonstop –which is exactly what he was doing the one time I visited him at a hospital, right after his lab exploded.

He was making light of his injuries, joking about being offered the title role on 'Scarface 2'. He was making us laugh, but Doc Robbins was more perceptive; he realized that behind Greg's mirth there was real concern about the scratches on his face. The Doc didn't say anything, but the next day he gave Greg some home-made ointment, guaranteed to heal his wounds.

If only Greg's wounds were as easy to treat now. That man had put a gun to his head, for God's sake. The gun could have been empty for all we knew, but that didn't change the fact that he'd threatened Greg's life. It would take love and patience to help him heal this time.

Thank God his family was there for him. It was the best medicine he could hope for.

Or was it? According to Karen, Greg had been sedated. Didn't anyone in his family know the unfortunate effect that narcotics had on him? He was going to experience one hell of a hangover if the dosage wasn't carefully monitored.

Someone should have cautioned the doctors-

This made me pause. What if no one but me knew this? If this was the case, then it was up to me to warn the doctors. With this thought in mind, I reached for my cell phone but in the semi darkness I didn't notice the glass that Karen had left on the coffee table, and I accidentally knocked it over.

The glass broke at my feet.

Mildly annoyed, I turned a lamp and then hunched down to pick up the pieces of glass. Using a magazine, I retrieved the fragments that had ended up under the couch, only to meet with something solid. I knew what it was, even without looking. It was a photo album. As to what it was doing under the couch, well, that's where it had ended, when I shoved it out of the way a few weeks before.

I should have picked it up a long time ago but let's face it, I'd been lax on my housekeeping duties lately. Or maybe I'd purposefully ignored it, since it was because of this album that Greg and me had split.

God, it seemed stupid now, to fight over an album. But even now I couldn't see how it could have been any different. I'd tried so hard to keep my private life to myself… only to find Greg sitting on my couch, browsing the album, looking at pictures that I hadn't looked at in more years than I cared to admit. It was more that I could take.

I was wondering what to do about the album when my phone –the one in the kitchen- rang. It was my private number and the ring cut shrilly into the silence.

I rose to take the call.

It was Jim.

"What the hell's going on with you?" he said reproachfully, "I've been calling you for hours."

I opened my mouth to give him a suitable retort, but held back at the last minute.

"Sorry." I said quietly.

"Ah, it's ok," he said, softening his tone, "You're not in the mood to talk -I understand. Did Morrison give you a hard time? Wait, forget I asked," he added quickly, "We can't talk about that until they've officially cleared you." He paused for a moment, "So…" he hesitated, "How are you holding up?"

The compassionate tone in his voice irritated me. When I didn't reply, he continued, in the same tone, "Listen, Gil…" he said, "About what happened last night -"

"Do you have anything on the case?" I interrupted.

Jim tried again.

"Gil, I know how difficult this must be for you," He said patiently, "It's always harder on civilians -"

The slightly patronizing tone he used was even more irritating than the compassionate one but this time I didn't interrupt. The truth was, Jim was entitled to patronize me. My behavior had been less than sterling so far: I'd exposed my guys to a dangerous situation, I'd almost killed one of them myself, and then, after Jim arrived, instead of keeping some professional cool, I'd stumbled away and thrown up behind some bushes.

Jim didn't say anything while I was doubled up and heaving, but he'd offered me a handkerchief afterwards. He'd been the model of kindness all along, and I'd hated every minute of it.

"Jim?" I said, cutting into his little speech, "Do you have any information on the case?"

"We have an ID on the guy," he said quietly.

I couldn't believe he didn't just say so in the first place.

"Gil?" he said, "You there?"

"Who's he?"

"Frank Jenkins." Jim replied, "Age 38 -"

"He has a rap sheet?"

"A huge one," Jim replied, "This was a real psycho, Gil. Started out as a juvenile Peeping Tom and graduated into a full-blown rapist. According to the files, he did a few stints in prison but always managed to get reduced sentences, mostly because his victims were men. They were reluctant about appearing in court."

There was a faint rustling of paper in the background, which meant he was reading from a file.

"He moved to Miami a couple of years back," Jim said, "Didn't get in trouble –or so everybody thought- until last month, when he became the primary suspect in the rape and murder of three young men -"

"Jesus -"

"He was dubbed 'The Disco Killer', because his victims frequented the local night clubs. The evidence connects him to three murders, but the lead investigator says the number of victims might be higher than that. There's half-a-dozen men still missing. They were hoping Jenkins would led them to the other bodies as part of a plea bargain, but he escaped before an arrest could be made."

He paused, probably to give me a chance to say something, but I was too stunned to speak.

"The Miami detective says Jenkins used the same MO every time," Brass added then, "He kidnapped the guy, drugged him, took him to his place where he would keep the guy for weeks. What Jenkins did to these poor guys -"

But Jim didn't finish that line. "Bottom line," he said instead, "He killed them after weeks of torture and starvation, then dumped them in some swampy area. Decomposition on one of the bodies indicates that he was killed about two years ago, right after Jenkins first came to Miami." Jim paused again. "Gil, these guys, hum…" he hesitated, "They all shared the same look -"

"What do you mean?"

"They were all young, dark-haired, good-looking…" He said slowly, "They looked like Sanders, Gil. He fits the victim's profile. Which means…"

This time he waited for me to speak.

"Which means that Jenkins wasn't just using Greg as a shield -" I said.

"He was kidnapping him." Brass said, "They found Jenkins' car just around the corner; whether he was there to burglar a house or assault someone, we may never know. What seems obvious is that once he saw Sanders, the compulsion to get him was too great to ignore. Even a cop's presence didn't deter him."

Oh, God.

"Does Greg know all this?" I asked.

"No," Jim said, "Not unless Jenkins himself told him. But don't worry, Gil; he's going to be all right. Hell, it could have been worse, don't you think?"

When I didn't comment, he continued, "Listen. Everyone's behind you on this one -and I mean everyone, Gil. Every lab technician, every CSI -from Las Vegas _and_ Miami –every cop… They're all rallying to get IA off your back -"

As if I cared about Internal Affairs at that moment.

All I could think of was that if Warrick hadn't been there, Jenkins could have easily taken Greg with him. All he had to do was put enough pressure on Greg's throat to render him unconscious, and then he would have easily taken him out of the house -

And then –

Oh, God.

"Is there anything I can do, Gil?"

"Just tell Warrick that I'll be here," I said hoarsely. "If he needs anything."

"Sure. Anything else?"

"No."

"Ok," he said casually, "Listen, I'll probably talk to Greg tomorrow, in case you want me to say something to him -"

This struck me as stupid. What was I going to tell Greg, "_Gee, I'm sorry that I almost got you killed by a psycho?"_

"No," I said hoarsely. "It's ok."

"Are you sure?"

I considered telling Brass about Greg's problems with sedatives, but didn't. Who the hell did I think I was, anyway, pretending to know Greg better than his own family and his doctors?

"I am sure." I said firmly.

"Yeah, well..." he hesitated, "I suppose it'll be better if you talk to him in person."

I frowned. Was Brass hinting at something, there? But before I asked, he spoke.

"Listen, Gil. I'm not supposed to tell you this, but word is, you'll be cleared by tomorrow morning. The guys from Miami think you did all of them a favor," he paused, "I know you will never see things under that light, but their word will have a lot of impact -"

I didn't want to listen to Brass anymore. Instead, I bit into the inside of my cheek –which was raw and bloody by now- and then I looked around. All day I'd been able to find something to distract me from each painful situation, and this time was no different.

The aquarium on the kitchen counter caught my attention. My tarantula was huddling in a corner. She'd been uprooted from her cozy corner in my office and she didn't seem to be taking it well.

Still holding the phone close to my ear, I opened the lid of the aquarium with a shaky hand and reached inside. To my surprise, my spider recoiled. I frowned and tried to touch her again, but this time she retreated farther away. Finally, she simply hid inside the hollow branch that she used to nest.

Startled, I pulled my hand away. I stared into the aquarium, wondering what it was that she saw that made her recoil like that. It was as if she were afraid of me, or as she didn't recognize me –

Maybe she didn't.

"Hey, pal?" Brass said suddenly, "Is everything ok?"

I almost laughed at the question.

_'Sure, everything's ok.' _I almost said, '_I killed someone, hurt a man I care about, and it feels like everything around me is crumbling.'_

But I held back. "I'm fine," I said calmly, "It's just hard to believe this is happening." I said wearily.

I regretted the words the minute I said them; I'd been trying to keep a stoic front all along and I'd just ruined it.

"I know, pal." Jim said, using his compassionate tone again. "But look, you've got to see this as a -"

I forced myself not to listen. Brass was trying to help but I knew that if we kept up this conversation it was going to cost me. I was going to say things I didn't mean to, and end up revealing more than I could afford to. Or I'd break down, which was just as bad. Losing control terrified me. No matter what, I'd always been able to keep a hold on my emotions, but the more we talked, the more tenuous that hold was becoming.

"Jim," I said abruptly, "I've got to go. Got a few things to do -"

Brass hesitated.

"Ok," he said at last, "I'll call tomorrow, then."

I put the phone back on its base and then I leant on the kitchen counter. I stared into the darkened room for a long time.

"Why?" I said. Why had it all come to this? Why had it all ended so badly –my relationship with Greg, my job, everything I held dear. Everything I depended on was lost, now.

It had taken a scared reaction from my spider to make me realize this.

All day I'd been able to put up a good front for people. They'd talked to me, they'd listened to my responses, and they'd generally behaved as if nothing had really changed. But I couldn't fool everybody. My spider, always so sensitive to my moods, had perceived something that humans could not. There was no fooling her.

As to why… Maybe there was no mystery, not really. Maybe the answer was right there, on the floor, under the couch. The album that I tried so hard to keep hidden because it held the truth about me. Well, that truth was in the open, now.

All my life, I'd ran away from the past but it had finally caught up with me.

It was more than I could take.

"Can't lose it," I said, still trying to hold myself together, "Can't lose it, can't lose it -"

But in the end, the decision to stay in control was taken out of my hands. I didn't notice it at first, because the initial symptoms usually varied –a ringing in the ear, or bright spots blurring my sight- but the next symptom was noticeable enough. A tentative pat in my temple, like the tip of somebody's finger gently examining my skull.

Shy at first, the touch would grow bolder as it searched for a way in, a soft spot to break through.

A migraine.

That day it felt like a caress -a mother's caress; almost comforting. Long fingers, tapping here and there, first a temple and then the other… then the back of my head… Insistent. There had to be a way in -there always was.

That day, I welcomed the pain.

* * *

TBC 


	5. Chapter 5

PART 5

Spoilers: Who are you? (the scene where a woman points a gun at Nick). For God and Country, (the scene where Gil goes to the firing range –a scene that's always intrigued me). And in Justice is Served, Gil says that he didn't choose death as a career but that death chose him. And the episode where Gil reveals that his father was a Botanist.

* * *

'Acid poured into my brain…' 'An ice-pick driven into my temple…' 'A helmet, slowly shrinking and compressing my head into the size of a tennis ball…'

There were many ways to describe how I felt but in short, I had one hell of a migraine.

I have a dim recollection of me, huddling in a corner of my bed and coming in and out of consciousness. When I was awake, I'd visualize the damage that the pain was inflicting; when I fell asleep, the pain would recede, only to be replaced by fear.

In my dreams, I kept running, running, running…

My heart pounded wildly as I ran through the woods. I was breathing harshly and I knew that no matter how fast I ran, I could not get away. I had nowhere to go, either. I just knew I had to get away.

_"Oh, come on, Gilbert,"_ a male voice yelled behind me, _"It's just an animal! That's what they're here, for, anyway!" _

In the last dream, I jumped behind a fallen tree and hid underneath; I held my breath, hoping my father and his buddies would walk by without seeing me.

And then I heard it; somewhere close, someone was groaning softly, as if in pain. I looked around, searching for the source, but I couldn't quite focus my gaze on anything; everything was blurry, and my head hurt like hell.

Suddenly, someone grabbed my shoulder and shook it.

I woke up with a start. I opened my eyes, only to meet what looked like an explosion of light. It felt as if individual beams were piercing holes into my head. I groaned and turned away.

A faraway voice was asking if I was all right.

Brass' voice.

"'o 'way," I growled, burying my face back into my pillow.

"Hey, Gil? You ok?"

I mumbled something about the light hurting my eyes, but it came out all distorted. It was as if I hadn't spoken in years and the muscles and vocal chords had atrophied from lack of use.

"What's that?" Jim asked, sincerely puzzled.

I managed a couple of words, "No lights -"

"Oh. Ok." He said, and he hurriedly turned off the bedside lamp. "Is that better, now?"

I looked again, only to find that he had a Maglite with him. I pushed the beam away from me.

"Hurts," I grunted.

"Ok, ok," he said soothingly, aiming the light at a spot on the wall so we wouldn't be left in complete darkness. "Is that ok?" he asked, a faint amusement underlining the words.

I squinted at him. In the semi darkness I noticed Jim's gaze darting here and there, taking in every detail in the room. He was acting like a detective. When he didn't see anything suspicious he turned his focus on me.

"You ok, Gil?" he asked.

I shook my head, but the simple movement made me dizzy.

"Hey, you're not drunk, are you?" he asked, still faintly amused. "I don't see any bottle here but -"

" 'igraine," I mumbled.

He looked up sharply.

"A grain?" he asked, more seriously now. He put a hand on my forehead, "A grain of what?"

"Migraine!" I retorted, pushing his hand away.

"Oh. Ok." He glanced around, "Where's your medication?"

I shook my head again.

"-ice." I mumbled hoarsely.

"Yeah, I know, your eyes hurt."

"ICE!" I groaned impatiently, "Ice pack."

"Ok, ok," Brass said patiently, "I'll get you one."

When he returned with the ice pack I grabbed it and pressed it on my face. It felt so good I moaned in relief. I kept the ice on my face until I finally had to come up for air. I put the ice pack on the back of my head.

"You ok, now?" Jim asked.

I'd forgotten Brass was there. I squinted again. He had a bottle of water in one hand, and a smaller bottle in the other.

I hadn't questioned his presence in my home until then.

"What're you doing here?" I frowned.

"I just dropped by to -"

"You _broke_ into my home?" I interrupted, managing to sound indignant and pissed off at the same time.

He lifted his hands in self-defense.

"Hey, we've been calling you since early in the morning. We tried your cell, your phone number, your pager… You never answered. Frankly, we were worried, Sara and me -"

"Sara called?" I asked, apprehensively. A call from her meant there was something the matter with Greg.

"She wanted to be the first to give you news," Jim said, "I.A. cleared you of any misconduct." he paused expectantly.

I put the ice pack back on my face.

"But don't get all overexcited," he said sarcastically. "Anyway," he added after a moment, "We called you all morning, me and Sara. We thought you'd rather hear the news from us."

I reluctantly lowered the ice.

"Thanks," I muttered.

Brass looked closely at me.

"Gil, you didn't take your medication, did you?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"Jesus, Gil. Why?"

It was difficult to explain.

"I thought I could tough it out." I said. But the ice pack in my hand was proof that I'd failed, and we both knew it, "I guess I'm a wimp." I said.

Brass shook his head.

"You're not a wimp, Gil -just an idiot. Here," he said, offering me a plastic bottle. He frowned when I didn't take it. "You don't want to take your pills?"

"Those cause drowsiness -" I said evasively.

"And?" he replied. He smiled, "You're not planning on taking a drive or operating any heavy machinery any time soon, are ya?"

"I don't want to sleep." I muttered.

I should have left it at that, but Jim was obviously waiting for an explanation. And maybe, just maybe, I needed to unburden myself too.

"I took one pill, right at the beginning," I said reluctantly, "I fell asleep and I kept having this dream –over and over -"

"What dream?"

I took a deep breath. "We were back at the house, Greg and me and… the perp." I said, "I walked up to them and then I pulled the trigger –just like it happened at the house," I gulped down, "But in the dream it was Greg who died, every time."

"It was just a nightmare, Gil."

"I know that," I replied. "It's just… Every time I woke up, there was this brief moment when I didn't know which was real anymore – the dream or _this_." I said, glancing around my room. "And then I started wondering whether I'd only dreamed that Greg was alive -"

One look at Jim's bewildered face, and I knew telling him my story was a mistake.

To his credit, Jim merely shook his head.

"You've been reading too much science fiction." He said gently. "Greg is alive, Gil. Ok?" he paused, "Now, _this_ is the real deal: You're in so much pain that your face is twitching and you're slurring your words. You _need_ this," he said, putting the pills and the water within my reach, "Just take the pills; get some sleep."

It made no sense to resist. Feeling like a little kid, I obeyed.

* * *

I don't know how long I slept, but when I woke up there were sounds coming from the kitchen. Brass was still there.

I was in no condition to get out of bed, but I couldn't rest easily knowing Brass was there.

When I finally made it into the kitchen, he was mixing something pink and frothy in the blender. There was a grocery bag on the kitchen counter too. From the logo, I could tell he'd gone to a nearby store.

Sunlight was streaming through the open windows. It was about ten in the morning, and it suddenly dawned on me that I didn't know what day it was.

Brass looked up.

"Well." He said after a quick assessment, "You look like hell."

I felt like hell, too. I sat heavily on a stool and leant on the counter. I glanced at my spider. It was placidly laying on a rock in the middle of its pool.

"What about your pet? Do you have feed it, or something?" Brass asked.

"No," I said, "It eats only twice a week." I looked into the aquarium again. The mealworm was still there.

"By the way," Brass said, "Your security system was off when I came. You should be more careful, Gil. Anyone could have entered your house."

Starting with a nosy cop, I thought. But I didn't say anything; I didn't have the energy to argue with him.

He poured the pink mixture into a tall glass, and set it in front of me.

"I can't hold anything down," I said apologetically.

"I know." He said gently, "But try a little of this. It's a protein shake."

I stared into the glass but didn't touch it.

"What?" he asked.

"I don't know if you're treating me like a little kid or like an old man," I said morosely.

"Does it matter?"

I looked up.

"It does," I retorted, "I still got some pride, you know."

He scoffed.

"Just shut up and drink it."

"It's an old man's drink." I muttered before taking a sip.

"Actually, it's a kid's drink. Sorry," he said, "It was all they got in that fancy store that's just a few blocks away."

The shake tasted lightly of cherry-flavored cold medicine. But it was cold and it soothed the painful sores on the inside of my cheek.

I took a couple of sips and then I closed my eyes. I was still sleepy.

"How long were you in that bed, Gil?"

I opened my eyes with difficulty.

"Mmmm?"

"How long -"

"What day's today?" I asked before he finished.

"Sunday."

So I'd spent Friday night and most of Saturday huddled in bed, shaking in pain.

"Gil." Brass prompted.

"I don't know," I replied.

Brass didn't press me for an answer; instead, he started taking groceries from the bag. Fresh fruit, a couple of cans of soup –

"By the way," he said, "Warrick just called; he says Sanders was released from the hospital earlier today."

I kept my gaze on the glass in front of me.

"Oh, and Sanders' sister called, too," he added casually. "Karen, I think her name is."

I looked up sharply. There was something in Jim's tone that put me on my guard. If Karen had told him about Greg and me –

"She seemed pretty pissed off, by the way," he said, "Said you didn't call –not once. Asked me to tell you what an SOB you are."

Well, _that _sounded like the Karen I knew and intensely disliked.

Jim was looking attentively at me. When I didn't comment, he continued, "He's ok, by the way. Greg, I mean. In fact, he'll be back at work on Tuesday. He won't be talking much -his throat's still sore, of course. But at least, he'll be back -"

"That's good." I said expressionlessly.

"Yeah." He agreed, "Being at the lab will give him a respite from his family –they're the smothering type, you know?" he paused, "Or maybe you don't, since you didn't even bother to call."

"I was supposed to stay away until IA finished their investigation -"

"Oh, please," he said skeptically. "You could have talked to them, Gil; you know it, and I know it. All you had to do was ask for Karen or any of them."

He leant on the counter, "Look," He said, "You're a better supervisor than I ever was, and I've never thought I'd question your leadership. But this time I've got to ask: Why are you being so hard on the kid?"

"What does that mean?"

"You know what I mean. He screwed up –so what? I mean, even Morrison and Hall decided not to give him a hard time for his blunder -"

"What blunder?"

"What blunder?" he repeated, as if he couldn't believe I was asking the question, "He let this guy Jenkins get close enough to grab him and subdue him. How in the world didn't he notice there was a stranger in the premises? He says he was too focused on the job to notice, but still -"

I was appalled.

"So now you're blaming Greg for being a victim?"

"I'm not," he replied, "But he was careless, Gil. He screwed up, and in other circumstances, IA would have given him a reprimand -"

"He didn't screw up," I said angrily, "And in case you've forgotten, he managed to deflect a bullet that would have hit Warrick."

"I'm not saying the kid didn't act bravely," he replied, and then he paused. "Wait a minute," He said, frowning, "If you don't think he screwed up, then why are you giving him the silent treatment?"

When I didn't answer, he continued, "I mean, the sister was right, you know. You should have called, drop him a message. It doesn't matter whether IA gives him a hard time or not; it's you he needs some reassurance from."

I looked down. I shook my head.

"What?" he asked.

"I don't know to say to him."

"What does that -"

"I don't know what to say to any of them." I added.

Jim was in silence for a moment.

"Is that why you're taking a vacation?" he said softly.

I looked up. News traveled fast, apparently.

"Catherine told me," he explained.

I nodded.

"I need to get away," I said.

"Hey, I understand," he said amiably, "I mean, you could do with some rest."

He looked expectantly at me, but I studiously turned my attention back to my shake.

"So…" he said, "You're going somewhere?"

"I believe so, yes."

"Have you decided where?"

I glanced at him.

"Not yet."

He nodded good-naturedly.

"You're simply gonna hop in a train and see where it takes you –is that it?"

"Something like that."

"And are you planning on coming back?"

I looked up sharply.

"What does that mean?"

"Hey, I gotta ask." He said, lifting his hands in self-defense, "About five years ago, I went to Chicago for a seminar. I never told you this, but your name came up in a conversation. They told me how you rarely ever went away on vacation, and how one day you got it into your head to go to Las Vegas, of all places."

He smiled faintly, "A week later, they were told you weren't coming back. You'd had a job waiting for you all along."

"So, I gotta tell you," he added, "Every time you take a vacation, I have this weird feeling that you're not coming back."

I should have said something like, 'of course, I'm coming back,' which would have effectively ended that line of conversation right there, but I didn't. I had this need to talk –to explain myself. Maybe it was a side-effect of my migraine medicine.

Whatever it was, I suddenly found myself telling the truth.

"I don't know if I can ever go back to the lab." I said.

"Why?"

I looked down uncomfortably.

"Because…" I hesitated, "I can't imagine looking at my colleagues in the eye and telling them what to do," I said, "Or sitting in the interrogation room, putting the pressure on some perp. I mean, who am I to judge others -"

"You can't just leave, Gil." He said gently, "It would be like running away."

That was exactly what I wanted to do.

"Look, Gil…" Jim said. Then he took a deep breath, "I know you feel bad about shooting this guy." He said solemnly. "I know that in your mind, you've probably come out with different scenarios in which you find yourself managing to capture the guy without shooting at him, am I right?" he paused.

He was exactly right, but I didn't say so. I couldn't even look at him.

"You probably think you could have talked Jenkins into giving himself up," he continued, "Just a couple of phrases from you, and he would have willingly released Greg and dropped the gun, right? Or maybe you think you could have shot him in the leg or in the arm, just to stop him -"

I smiled despite myself.

"According to Morrison, I could have done just that." I said, "He asked me if I couldn't have aimed at Jenkins' shoulder, or a knee -"

Brass snorted.

"Yeah, right," he said, "If you had shot Jenkins in the arm or the leg, he would have shot back." Then he softened his tone, "Look, Morrison's only doing his job, Gil. He can't very well congratulate you, right? He's making sure you won't be feeling heroic for killing Jenkins."

"I'm not feeling heroic." I said.

"I know." Brass said gently, "You feel like shit, right now," he said. He took a deep breath. "Listen, Gil. I don't know if anyone else has told you this, and I don't know if you will believe it, but it's true: You'll get over it."

"That's not true." I retorted, "You told me once that you never forget killing someone; that it's always at the back of your mind -"

Jim was taken aback -he clearly didn't remember ever saying that. But I did. A few years back, Brass had told me about his life in New Jersey, and the one case that still haunted him: The death of an armed teenager.

It had been a moment of weakness on his part and I wouldn't have mentioned it in other circumstances…

"You were drunk when you told me." I said gently.

He scoffed.

"If I was drunk then it doesn't count." He said. Then he softened his tone, "Look. It's true that you don't forget. What you do is come to terms with it. Remember, Jenkins was scum. If you hadn't stopped him -"

"I know he was scum." I interrupted.

It didn't matter; I still wished I didn't kill him.

"Look… I understand how you feel," Brass said, "You don't have it in you to be destructive -"

But he was wrong. I did have it in me. I could be destructive –I'd just proved it.

"I just don't want you to mourn this guy forever, Gil."

I smiled bitterly. Brass didn't get it: It wasn't Jenkins's death that I was mourning. It was someone else's death.

Gil Grissom's death.

I felt tears starting to gather in my eyes, but I made an effort to hold them back.

Brass studiously looked away, giving me a moment to put myself together.

"Listen," Brass said. "You're right; you never forget. It's always there. Sometimes, a smell brings back the memories –or a sound, or a color, or a familiar face. And you're bound to feel this more deeply; you're too sensitive for your own good sometimes."

I scoffed at this description of me.

"What?" he frowned.

"Nothing." I said, "It's just that you might not know me as well as you think."

He smiled.

"What, you're some sort of Dr. Jekyll/ Mr. Hyde?" he said with some amusement. But I didn't smile back, and after a moment he grew serious too. "What are you trying to say?" he asked.

I looked at Jim.

"You don't think it's weird, that I managed to kill Jenkins so cleanly, Jim?" I asked quietly. "Morrison and Hall did. Hall kept pointing that out, you know? How I could have missed and shot Greg instead -"

"Hall was simply depicting the worst-case scenario," Brass retorted, "He wanted to make sure you won't be taking matters in your hands every time there's a hostage situation, just because you were lucky once."

"You think it was luck, Jim?"

"Call it what you like," he retorted, "Bottom line, the shot was a fluke -"

"It wasn't a fluke." I said quietly. "I thought it was, at first. I wanted to think it was, I guess." I looked down. I extended my hands, palms up. "I'm good at it, Jim," I said.

"What do you mean?"

I took a deep breath. "I'm good at shooting people." I said.

Jim briefly closed his eyes.

"Oh, shit," he sighed. "Don't do this to yourself, Gil."

"I'm just stating the obvious, Jim." I replied, "I didn't hesitate, you know. I didn't think of the pros and cons, I just went in and pulled the trigger."

"There was no time to think it over," he retorted, "You were defending your guys."

"Yes," I said, still looking at my hands, "I did what I had to do. It sounds very noble, doesn't it?" I paused for a moment, "Do you know what it's like to be good at something without even trying or wanting to?"

"What does that mean?

I didn't immediately reply, and when I did, it probably seemed that I was changing the subject.

"I was one of the few CSIs who opposed carrying a gun." I started.

"I know," He said gently. "Most cops thought you just didn't want to take part in something you would suck at."

I shook my head, "I didn't suck. When my turn came up, it turned out I was good at it -too good." I looked up, "I got a score of 85."

Jim's eyebrows rose.

"Wow. I didn't know that."

"That's because I talked the instructor into lowering the score in his final report."

"Why did you do that?" Brass frowned.

I shrugged. Obviously, I didn't want anyone to know I was one hell of a shot.

"I carried an empty gun for years," I confessed, "I never thought I'd need to use it, until a woman pointed a gun at Nick. Remember that? I pointed my own gun at her and talked her into giving herself up -" When Jim nodded, I added, "My gun was empty at the time."

"Shit -"

"It was a wake-up call," I said, "I realized I couldn't go around with an empty gun. I didn't expect to use it –not even after the trouble with Fromanski. The thing is, I don't practice," I said, "But in my last evaluation I got a score of 90."

Brass waited for me to say more and when I didn't, he frowned.

"I don't get it," he said slowly, "So, you're good at it –so what? _I_ am not surprised. You're an overachiever, that's all."

I shook my head, "Jim, this isn't something I've read about or something I've purposefully memorized," I said, "It's not something I've studied until I know every intricacy. I'm just a natural."

Brass didn't comment; instead, he took a seat and leant forward.

"What are you trying to say here, Gil?"

I took a deep breath. I didn't recall the last time I'd talked about this and I wasn't sure where to begin.

"My father used to love guns." I said after a moment.

Brass' eyebrows rose.

"No kiddin'? I always pictured your dad as a pacifist. He was a teacher -a zoologist or something like that, wasn't he?"

I smiled.

"My _stepfather_ was," I said.

Jim's eyebrows rose.

"Oh." He said.

"My parents divorced when I was a five," I explained, "A couple of years later, my mother remarried. His name was Andrew Grissom, and he was a Botanist."

"-a Botanist," he repeated, as if the word had been on the tip of his tongue all along. "So, this guy adopted you."

Not exactly, but I didn't explain that part.

"After the divorce, my mom and me moved to another city," I said, "But my father insisted on keeping in touch, so -" I shrugged, "Like it or not, I had to spend my summers with him."

"I'm guessing you didn't like it."

I glanced at him.

"His idea of fun was to go hunting."

"Oh."

I almost laughed at that 'oh'. I'd never realized until then how expressive Brass could be. There was dismay and, yes, compassion in that single syllable.

"I was too young to take part on the hunting itself," I explained, "But my father insisted on teaching me how to handle the different weapons. I was curious -" I paused.

I didn't want to sound apologetic about it. Yes, I was curious about the guns, but there was more than that: I wanted to share something with my father. We had little in common –apart from some physical traits. I wanted to please my dad, that was all.

And truth to be told, I enjoyed our time together –for a while, at least.

"He taught me how to dismantle the guns," I said, "We'd clean the pieces, and then we'd put them back together again. He also taught me how to move noiselessly in the woods."

Which explained how I'd managed to approach two CSIs and an armed perp without being heard.

"I would follow my father around around," I said, "Copy every movement of his as if we were playing a game. It was great," I admitted, "Until I saw what he needed the guns for."

"Deer?" Brass asked succinctly.

"Anything that moved, actually." I replied.

"Oh."

"Once I saw what the game was all about, the fun was over."

"So... what did you do?"

I ran away –over and over.

"I stayed out of the way," I said simply "Studied bugs -"

"And thus, a career was born." Jim smiled. "What about your dad? Was he mad at you?"

"He wasn't happy." I said evasively.

I made him look bad in front of his buddies -of course he was mad.

"And did he -" Jim hesitated, "Was he -"

I smiled faintly at Jim's sudden delicacy.

"He wasn't abusive." I said. "Not physically." I added as an afterthought.

I thought of the sudden rages my father was prone to. I'd given up trying to understand him a long time ago, but maybe it was time for me to try again.

"He was who he was." I said after a moment. "He just saw things from a different perspective. He probably thought that hunting would toughen me up. To him, my interest in books was a sign of weakness." I said thoughtfully. "Maybe… Maybe he knew what I was even before I did -"

"What does that mean?"

It meant that my father probably knew I was gay, and the prospect terrified him.

But I didn't tell this to Brass. Instead, I turned the conversation back to my stepfather.

"He was a quiet guy who loved books, like my mother and me." I said, "He certainly didn't need a gun to make a point," I added.

"That must have been a plus," Jim mumbled.

"He died too soon." I said. "One afternoon he lay down to take a nap and… his heart simply stopped."

"How old were you?"

"About nine." I said.

"Oh." There it was again –compassion. It didn't bother me, anymore.

"He knew everything," I continued, smiling at a distant memory, "He would solve every problem and answer every question -"

Brass smiled. "Sounds like someone I know."

I nodded.

"I modeled myself after him," I said quietly.

It was true; when I was a kid, I made a conscious decision to be like him. I strove to speak like him, move like him, and think like him. And the truth was, I didn't have to work at it –being like him was easy for me.

I took a deep breath, "I took his name, years after he died." I said slowly, "I grew up, thinking I could be like him if I tried hard enough. And until yesterday, I thought I'd succeeded."

"Gil -"

"Now I feel as if a part of me had died." I said.

Jim didn't immediately reply. Of course not –what could anyone say in a case like this?

Poor Jim didn't know what he was getting into when he came over to my house.

"Gil…" he said at last, "I won't pretend to know what you're going through. Right now you're too emotionally raw to see things from its proper perspective. You faced a life-or-death situation, and you did what was best."

"Besides," he continued, "You don't know what Andrew Grissom would have done in a similar situation. Personally, I believe he would have done anything –anything- to save his loved-ones."

He look a deep breath, "You know, I was afraid that things would get to you, Gil. That's why I kept trying to talk to you, the other day. The thing is… You've always ignored your emotions; you've ignored them for so long that you've started to think they don't exist. But they're real; and now you don't know how to deal with them."

"I mean," he continued, "If this had happened to somebody else, you would have been the first to come out with –I don't know, a quote, maybe? Something -anything- to put their minds at ease. But it happened to you. You don't know how to forgive yourself."

He was right, I didn't -I couldn't. Jim didn't understand –but then, he didn't have the full picture. Nobody did, except for Warrick and Greg, who'd evidently kept the truth to themselves.

Jim didn't know that right after Greg realized he hadn't been shot, he'd looked in my direction. He gaped when he saw that gun in my hand. He was pale and in obvious pain, but I didn't notice any of this at the time. All I saw was the incredulous look he was giving me.

He was horrified, and his reaction angered me. Instead of reaching out to help, I exploded.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" I yelled, "How could you let this guy take you?"

And Greg, who by now had started to shake from the shock of it all, blurted out, "I thought it was you."

The words came out in a hoarse whisper, but they were intelligible enough for me.

_'I thought it was you.' _

My anger vanished as I realized what those words meant. Greg had known there was somebody else in the room all along. At any other time he would have turned but this time he didn't, because he didn't want to spoil the surprise. He thought I was tiptoeing towards him, in what was surely an attempt at a reconciliation.

He probably leant back, the minute Jenkins reached for him. By the time he realized his mistake, it was too late: Jenkins was holding him by the throat, trying to choke him into unconsciousness -

God.

I couldn't hold Greg's gaze anymore.

Mechanically, I turned to Warrick, who was still kneeling by his friend.

"You're in charge of this crime scene, now." I said. "Seal the room and don't process any evidence without at least one cop present."

I secured my gun and handed it to him, "Bag it and keep it with the rest of the evidence until Internal Affairs asks for it." I gulped, "Take him outside," I said, incapable of even uttering Greg's name, "Get him a blanket. Paramedics are on their way."

And then I went outside to wait for Brass.

And now, Jim was looking expectantly at me. He'd already done so much for me, the least I could do was put him his mind at ease.

"You're right," I said, then. "Maybe it's time for me to give myself a break."

"Exactly," he said.

We were silent for a moment.

"Can I ask you a question?" Jim asked suddenly, "What did your father do for a living.?"

I smiled.

Brass was in for a surprise.

"He was a cop," I said. "He was a patrolman to the end of his days."

Jim reacted just the way I thought he would; he gaped.

"How did you end up working with cops?" he asked incredulously.

"I didn't plan on it," I said simply.

I had a theory as to why I'd ended up as a CSI. Those hunting trips my father took me to made me face death at an early age. The carnage repulsed me, but there were aspects of the death process that exerted a sort of fascination on me.

I couldn't help _watching_.

What could have easily grown into an unhealthy interest in death and violence was canalized into something more positive –a career- thanks to the people I met later –my stepfather, teachers, and counselors.

"I don't mind working with cops." I shrugged.

Brass was looking thoughtfully at me.

"There might be a reason for it." he said, "After all, as a CSI, you get to butt heads with cops, and you often win. You can either help a cop do his job or hinder it –whichever you prefer. Not to mention that _patrolmen_ have to report to _you_."

I frowned. I'd never thought of my job in those terms.

Brass was still staring at me.

"You know, there's something I've always wondered about you," he said, "The fact that despite working on the side of the law you tend to rebel against figures of authority: The sheriff, the Major, Ecklie, cops on high positions…" he paused, "Father figures."

I paused. This time I saw what he meant, and his insight frankly surprised me.

Before I could say this, Brass' pager suddenly rang. He reluctantly pulled it out and looked at it.

"I gotta go." he said apologetically. He didn't move, though.

He was still worried about me.

"I'll be fine," I said.

"You sure? I mean, I can get someone else to take this call -"

"No." I said quietly, "No, it's ok. You've -" I hesitated, "You've been very kind, but -"

"But you need some time to yourself," he finished. He smiled good-naturedly.

He rose.

"Listen..." he said as he walked around the counter, "About your vacation and the rest... Don't make any harsh decisions, ok? You're too emotionally raw right now. Just... think it over. Take a rest..." he paused, "And call Sanders," he added pointedly.

"Ok," I nodded.

"And for God's sake, don't try to tough it up again, will ya?"

"I won't," I said patiently.

"Check out your messages," he added as an afterthought. "It won't look good if you don't return your calls."

"Will do." I watched as Brass walked towards the door, "Jim... I appreciate what you did."

"Yeah, well..." he smiled, "You were there for me, right? When I was drunk?"

He smiled, and then he left.

* * *

TBC 


	6. Chapter 6

A DIFFERENT DILEMMA 

Grissom's quote is from a short story called "The Hands of Mr. Ottermole".

* * *

After Brass left, I stayed in the kitchen for a few minutes, watching the pink goo in the glass melt.

"Don't make any harsh decisions," Brass had said; but by the time he said this, I'd a already decided what I was going to do. In fact, I think I knew, the minute I started talking about my father, that I would not stay in Las Vegas -not after all that had happened, and certainly not after blurting out all that personal stuff.

I'd never revealed so much about myself -not even to Greg. Especially not to Greg.

Thinking of Greg reminded me of something I should have done the minute Brass left; something I _needed_ to do.

I glanced around, and noticed that Brass had left my phone within easy reach. I picked it up without a moment's hesitation, but once I had it in my hand, I couldn't bring myself to make the call.

I didn't know what I was going to say to Greg. Apart from 'I'm sorry,' that is.

I sat with the phone in my hand for quite a while until it suddenly dawned on me that Greg would probably not be taking the call; according to Brass, his throat was still too sensitive. If I called him, I'd be probably getting his answering machine. At the very worst, I'd be getting Karen.

Well, that made it easier to make my call. If I got his answering machine, at least I'd be hearing his voice. And if I got Karen… well, I probably deserved anything she dished out to me.

I was bracing myself for Karen's tirade when, to my utter surprise, I heard Greg answer the phone with a hoarse 'hello'.

I was taken aback.

"Greg?" I asked, just to make sure.

"Yeah."

Shit.

"Did I wake you? No, wait," I said before he had a chance to answer, "Don't talk."

I paused, searching for something to say. I pressed my ear against the phone, as if this could bring him closer. There were faint noises in the background, and I pictured him lying on the couch, watching TV, just like I'd seen him do so many times.

The silence was too much for Greg, who broke into my reverie.

"You still there?"

"Yeah," I said. "Sorry -" I paused. I took a deep breath, "I'm sorry, Greg." I said solemnly. "I'm sorry, for -"

I was sorry for so many things, I didn't even know where to begin.

In the silence that ensued, I became aware of another sound: his breathing. It was labored, as if each breath was taking him a huge effort. Of course; Jenkins had held him so tightly that he'd probably done a lot of damage to Greg's upper chest, maybe even to the point of breaking a rib.

And there I was, forcing him to talk.

"Greg? Maybe this isn't the right time to do this."

"Grissom -" he started but I didn't let him continue.

"You should be resting." I said. I'd only meant it as a suggestion but it came out as a reprimand, and the stern tone I used reminded me of the way I'd talked to him when we were still at the crime scene. It probably reminded him of it too, because he effectively kept mum.

I should have never called him.

"Get some sleep." I said in a more gentle tone. "We'll talk some other day. Ok?"

I hang up without waiting for an answer.

-----

Night was falling, and once again I was sitting on the couch, staring at the screen of my lap top. This time I wasn't writing a report for the benefit of I.A.; I was checking on six months worth of e-mails.

I was always getting job offers from colleagues all over the country. I usually gave those messages only a cursory glance, but this time I read each and every one, sorting my job options among them.

As far as I could see, I could choose between teaching jobs or lab jobs. I'd never find anything like my job in Las Vegas –a job I'd created and fought for. Still, it was reassuring, the fact that I could leave Las Vegas whenever I chose and have a job waiting for me.

It was leaving Las Vegas that posed the biggest difficulty, new job or not. For instance, I couldn't just pack my stuff in the back of a car and leave. I'd spent half a lifetime in Las Vegas; even if I didn't take anything with me, I still had to dispose of my belongings.

Just the removal of my 'pets' looked like a daunting enterprise. And there were hundreds of documents and personal archives that I had to sort out, too.

I had a lot to do, but the first step was to let people know I was available.

I started to compose a message, but stopped after a moment. My fingers hovered over the keys, but my mind was a blank. Try as I might, the words just wouldn't come.

It seemed I didn't know how to apply for a job anymore.

Frustrated, I put the lap top back on the coffee table. I stretched my legs to shake off an incipient cramp but in doing so, I became aware of pieces of glass still lying on the floor.

I remembered then. The glass I broke, the photo album…

I hunched down to clean up. I wondered why Brass didn't remark on them. Unless he didn't notice... But that was hard to believe; he must have noticed and simply assumed that I was a slob at home. After all, the entire place was a mess; I'd been definitely lax in my household duties lately.

I picked up the glass and after a moment's hesitation I retrieved the photo album. It was dusty, and the covers were a bit loose after the abuse I'd subjected it to, but it was otherwise unharmed.

I put it on the table and looked at it. It seemed incredible that Greg and me would split over something so small, but then, we didn't really break up because of the album.

It was simply the last straw.

One morning, I came home after work and found Greg here, sitting in my living room. I was taken aback, although maybe I shouldn't have been; after all, I'd recently given him a key to my place. But the key had been given as a sort of consolation prize after my refusal to accept Sara and Warrick's Valentine's Day invitation; I never really expect him to use it.

But having him enter my home wasn't the real problem; it was seeing him with the photo album in his hands that stunned me the most. I kept the album in a room at the end of the hallway among other personal documents. I hardly ever glanced at it, much less bring it out for others to look at.

Greg didn't know anything was amiss; he didn't even look up when I came in. He was happily browsing, making comments like, 'Hey, you were a cute kid, you know. You kinda looked like the Gerber baby -"

I wasn't in the mood for compliments. "Where did you find that?"

He glanced at me.

"This?" he asked, "It was in that room at the end of the hallway. The door was open, and -"

"I don't think so," I interrupted. I didn't keep the room under lock and key, but I didn't think I'd left the door open. (It was only later that I remembered being in the room some time before; it was possible that I'd inadvertently left the door open, just like Greg had said. But by then, it was too late for explanations.)

"It was open," Greg said good-naturedly. He glanced at me again and whatever he saw in my face was enough to make his smile fade. He frowned. "What, you think I was snooping?"

"Greg, you can't go around looking into my personal stuff -"

"I wasn't looking -" he glared.

And from then on, what started as a mere misunderstanding quickly escalated into a fight. I don't remember everything we said, but there was obviously a lot of pent-up anger and resentment on both sides. The verbal fight escalated and suddenly turned physical, with Greg lashing out.

"You know what? Here," he hissed, "Take your fucking album!" and he shoved it at me.

Taken by surprise, I stumbled backwards and missed the album altogether. It fell on the floor with a thud.

I looked at the album and then I looked incredulously at Greg. I couldn't believe he had done this, and, by the look on his face, he couldn't, either.

Just a few seconds earlier we'd been angry enough to lash out at each other, but once one of us did, we were shocked.

Greg even stepped back, his combative mood fading as quickly as it had flared up. For a while, all we did was breathe hard and stare at each other. Neither one of us dared say anything or even move.

We'd narrowly avoided what could have turned into a physical confrontation, and we wanted to leave it at that.

At the time it seemed like the best thing to do, but now that I looked back, I couldn't help wondering whether lashing out might not have been better in the long run. We would have probably hurt each other –literally and figuratively- but at least we would have freed ourselves from the anger we felt.

Instead, we let our anger turned into bitterness.

Greg was the first to speak.

"Maybe we should take a break," he said. He paused for a moment, and then he asked. "What do you think?"

There was something in his eyes -hope, maybe. He was leaving it up to me, and I believe that if I had asked him to give it another shot, he would have said yes.

But I couldn't risk it; by then I was convinced that if we stayed together, we would end up hurting each other.

"Yeah." I said, "I think you're right."

He nodded, as if he'd known all along what my answer was going to be.

"I'm-" he started, "I'm gonna go inside. You know, to get my things."

He left a while later, taking with him the few things he'd brought: an old t-shirt, a few toiletries -

All that was left of him were a few stray hairs on my bed.

And memories.

---

"Hey, you're blind or what?"

It took me a moment to realize that those words were being addressed to me. A big man was standing in my way, and he looked pissed. I'd either stepped on his foot or stumbled against him – whatever. I didn't care. I simply walked around him and kept walking. Behind me, I heard, 'Creep.'

That encounter was like a wake-up call. Until then, I'd been so focused on my thoughts that I'd been only vaguely aware of my surroundings. I'd left home without a clear notion of where I was going. Walk just for the sake of it; keep going -the farther away from my place, the better.

Back home, there were decisions to be made about a new job and a new city to live in. I wasn't ready to make choices. Not yet.

But after my encounter with that guy I started to notice things. Like how cold the night was, for instance, and how it forced complete strangers to huddle close together on the sidewalks. Hookers who usually stood alone to avoid the competition now shared their space with others in forced camaraderie, sharing smokes while sneaking glances at possible clients.

There were tourists shivering in their Hawaiian shirts, cursing the traveling agencies for not warning them about the weather. They were distracted and angry, and they had booze in their hands –a fatal combination.

But people were the least of my concerns that night, so I turned away.

I kept walking, instinctively turning to more quiet areas of the neighborhood. I wasn't really aware of my surroundings until I found myself in a cul-de-sac. When I looked up, I almost laughed in disbelief.

I was standing in front of a church. Saint Matthew's Chapel, to be more exact. It was a Catholic church I'd seen hundreds of times on my way home, one that I noticed for the same reason others might overlook it: It was a small, unassuming place that seemed out of place in Las Vegas.

I hesitated at first, but in the end I decided not to fight my instincts. Whatever the reasons, I'd come up all the way here; besides, I needed the rest.

The church was empty, as I thought it would be. Inside, the church was as modest as it was on the outside, but there were beautiful wood carvings on the wall. They were blackened with the soot of many candles, but I could easily ID some of the scenes represented.

I glanced around after a moment.

_Now, what_? I thought. I didn't really know why I'd come all the way here. I believed in God but I didn't think you had to go to church to find Him.

But I stayed. I sat in the last pew and then I stared ahead. And waited. And waited -

And then suddenly, I heard steps. Familiar steps.

I recognized the soft sucking sounds that his shoes made on the slick floor, and I recognized his stride, too. I noticed, the minute he started walking on tiptoe in a vain attempt to stop the noise –just like he did whenever he used those shoes at the lab.

But it couldn't be. It had to be a dream; a migraine-induced nightmare like the ones I'd had the other night. There was no way that Greg would be there -

I held my breath as the steps came closer and closer…

And then, a hand briefly touched my shoulder –the ghost of a caress. Greg's caress.

I looked up, half-expecting to find myself back in my bed, waking up from a dream. But it wasn't. Greg was there, looking down at me.

"Hi," he said. Then he smiled faintly, "No, I'm not a ghost or a dream –or a fatal vision." He added, acknowledging my penchant for quoting Shakespeare.

I mechanically made some space for him in my pew but he moved on to the next. He sat and turned half-way in my direction, shifting in his seat until he was able to look at me without turning his back on the altar. He grimaced a little as he did this; he was obviously in pain.

He looked up and our gazes met for a moment. Then he looked away.

I stared. The recent events had left their mark on Greg. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he had definitely lost weight.

He had buttoned his denim jacket all the way up to cover up the bruises on his throat, but I could still see the faint outline of a bruise that almost reached his jaw -so extensive was the damage that Jenkins had inflicted on him.

As I looked at his damaged flesh, I had a sudden recollection of Jenkins grasping Greg so forcefully that he was practically lifting him from the floor. It must have hurt like hell –

And then that flashback was replaced by another, one in which Greg and me were lying together in bed.

_I was pinning him flat on his back, kissing his throat as a prelude to sex. I'd always loved to do that, and, judging by his reaction, so did he. He was moaning and whispering words of encouragement, which only added fuel to my desire for him. _

_And then, suddenly, for some reason I could never fathom, I stopped kissing him and started growling instead, acting like some wild animal intent on eating his Adam's apple. _

_It was a playful moment between us, and I could remember the moment when Greg's moans turned into uncontrollable laughter… _

I shut my eyes close and forced myself to shake that memory away. It was the worst moment –not to mention the worst place- to be thinking like that.

When I looked at him again, Greg was still glancing here and there, taking in the rest of the church.

"Weird," he whispered. "It feels like we're trespassing."

"How did you know I was here?" I asked.

He didn't answer. I tried again.

"Greg? What are you doing here?"

He looked at me.

"That's what I should be asking you." he glared.

I ignored that.

"Are you ok?" I asked. Of course he wasn't –anyone could see that –anyone _listening_ to him would know he was not ok. It was obvious that he was in pain. But I didn't know what else to ask.

"I'm fine," he said. And then the ghost of a smile appeared as he added, "I just had a bad weekend."

"You should be home."

He should be taking care of himself –or letting others take care of him.

"Greg?" I said, and waited until he was looking at me again, "How did you know I was here?"

"I followed you." He said reluctantly.

"You _followed_ me? How -"

He smiled sheepishly.

"I was in your neighborhood," he said, "I was sitting in my car gathering the courage to walk up to your door, when I saw you."

I was taken aback by this revelation.

"You shouldn't be driving around," I said mechanically, "You should be home, resting."

"I _was_ home," he replied, "But then you called, and then you hang up -"

Shit.

"I'm sorry." I said.

"It's ok." He said dismissively. "I needed an excuse to get out, anyway," he added in a lighter tone, "Karen's starting to get on my nerves."

"Did you tell her you were coming over?"

"No." he said as if the answer should be obvious, "No. I put a couple of pillows under my blanket and escaped through the window."

I didn't know if that was a joke or not, and he didn't tell.

He was looking at me.

"You're worried about her, aren't you?" he asked, and he gave me the first genuine smile of the night. "It's ok," he said gently, "I left her a note. She's probably going to be pissed, but -"

"You shouldn't be outside," I interrupted, "You look like you need all the rest you can get."

He scoffed.

"You don't look so hot, yourself." He retorted, "Frankly, you look like hell."

"Thanks."

"I'm serious." He replied, glancing down at me. "You didn't even comb your hair. And your clothes -"

I looked down. For the first time, I realized that I hadn't changed my clothes since Friday night. I probably looked like a bum.

No wonder he'd felt compelled to follow me.

"Are you sick?" He asked.

"I'm fine." I replied calmly. "You, on the other hand, look sick _and_ sound sick. You can't even take a breath without wincing from the pain -" I paused.

I wanted to ask his a dozen questions about his condition, but at the same time I didn't want to know. Mostly, I just wanted him to leave. I couldn't bear to see him like this.

"Yeah," he said sheepishly, "I know I sound like Smeagol." He hunched down and made a face, "Hello, my precious," he whispered, and this time he did sound like Smeagol.

He smiled winningly at me but I ignored the joke.

"You should go home," I said, "Sometimes, sleep is the best medicine."

"Hey, it's not like I don't want to sleep," he glared. "But they gave me so many sedatives at the hospital that now I have _insomnia_." He straightened out with some difficulty, "I gotta wait for my body to flush out the chemicals -"

I groaned.

"I knew this would happen," I sighed, "I'm sorry -"

"Why?" he frowned, "You didn't give me the sedatives."

"I should have called your doctors," I said. "Tell them to take it easy -"

"They did what they had to do, Grissom." he said reasonably, "I _needed_ to sleep but was too wired up -"

I nodded.

"Karen told me." I said.

This time he studiously looked away. Evidently, he didn't want to talk about this.

"You sent her to check on me." I said, trying not to make it sound like an accusation.

"Yeah." he admitted reluctantly. He looked up. "She didn't give you a hard time, did she? She promised she wouldn't -"

"She was very nice to me," I said.

"Good," he said. "I, hum," he hesitated, "I just needed to know if you were ok, Grissom. I just didn't know who else to ask -"

"I understand."

"-and she needed the distraction, too," he added. "She was weeping and acting as if I was already dead. I was hoping you'd comfort each other somehow," he smiled mischievously as he added, "If you didn't get into a fight first."

I didn't smile back.

"She thinks we're still together." I said.

He looked uncomfortable.

"Yeah, I didn't tell her about the split. Didn't tell anyone, actually. Hate having people say 'I told you, so,' you know?" he smiled faintly.

I was going to say that I was sorry but refrained.

"Dennis guessed," Greg added, glancing at me.

Of course. A psychologist through to the end, Dennis must have easily read the signs.

"I saw him," I said. "He had a floral arrangement with him."

Greg seemed surprised. "You saw him?"

"I was sitting outside of the hospital when I saw him." I explained.

"You were there, then?"

_I was there, fantasizing about killing Dennis_, I thought.

"Yes," I said simply.

"He's been playing the part of the faithful, disinterested friend," Greg said, looking intently at me. When I didn't comment, he scoffed, "Karen hates his guts."

I smiled despite myself.

"She hates everybody's guts," I replied. "Except yours."

"She did hate mine, once," he said quietly.

He knew about Karen's hostility, then.

But he had forgiven her.

Greg glanced away, and once again I stared at him. Hungrily.

I had more flashbacks of us together –in bed, watching TV, sharing a pizza- and this time I didn't fight the memories, And as I looked at him, I mused on how much I wanted to reach for him and hold him and never let go...

But it was too late for that. All I could do was try to apologize.

"I'm sorry, Greg," I said.

"Why do you keep saying you're sorry?" he asked. He wasn't angry; he merely wanted to know.

"I'm sorry that you got hurt -" I started, "I'm sorry that things got so out of hand that -"

"Grissom," he interrupted. "Look… I know you're sorry," he said kindly, "I'm sorry, too –so what? It doesn't change anything."

"No," I said quietly, "It doesn't."

"Say something else, then," he said. He waited until I was looking at him, "Say you forgive me."

I frowned.

"Forgive you for what?"

"Just say it, Grissom."

"But there's nothing to forgive -"

He scoffed.

"What about forgiving me for screwing up at a crime scene?"

"There's nothing to forgive," I repeated, "None of this was your fault, Greg. You were the victim here."

"Being the victim is no excuse for stupidity, Grissom." he said sternly. "I thought Jenkins was you, and I let him get grab me." He looked at me, "You don't think I brought this on myself?"

But he wasn't really asking. "I mean, what was I thinking?" he continued, "You'd never make a pass at me while we were at a crime scene, right? And yet, that's exactly what I expected you to do," he shook his head in disgust, "No wonder you were so pissed off at me -"

"I wasn't pissed off -" I started, but the look he gave me made me stop. "You're right. I was." I paused for a moment, "I was angry at you for getting in trouble. It was irrational of me. But then, I haven't been rational in a long time." I admitted as an afterthought.

He looked at me, as if gauging the sincerity of my words.

"And then, there was this look on your face -" I added after a moment.

"What look?" he frowned.

I hesitated.

"You were looking at me as if you were afraid of me."

He was surprised.

"I wasn't afraid," he said. "Grissom, I was in _awe _of you." He paused, letting those words sink in my brain. "I mean, you managed to kill that freak with just one shot –it was amazing. To me it was like, I don't know, like discovering that my boyfriend had a secret identity. "

He shook his head, still amazed by the memory, "When I looked up and saw you standing there, I didn't just see you, Grissom. To me, you were Superman and John McClain and Han Solo and every damn hero I've ever known, all rolled up in one!"

He looked at me. "I wasn't afraid, Grissom," he said slowly, "I was _glad._"

I winced. He was still looking at me, as if gauging my reaction.

"Does that surprise you?" he challenged. He leant forward and lowered his voice, "Jenkins told me what he was going to do to me, Grissom. He said he was going to rape me and torture me 'til he got bored of his new toy," he gulped down, "He said I would _beg_ him to put an end to my misery -"

I looked away. I didn't want to hear this, but he was relentless.

"He said no one would ever find me; not unless they dug deep in the desert. So yeah," he said defiantly, "I was glad that you killed the SOB."

He glanced around as he said those last words, mindful of swearing at a sacred place. Then he looked at me.

"Only, it wasn't that simple, was it? It wasn't until I got to the hospital that I realized what I'd done to you."

"You didn't do anything -"

"I made you kill someone," he interrupted bluntly.

We looked at each other. His eyes were filled with sorrow as he added, "You killed him because of me, didn't you?"

It was true; if Jenkins had threatened somebody else, I would have at least tried to talk him out of it –and maybe, just maybe, spared his life. But with Greg's life on the line, I never hesitated.

But I didn't regret saving Greg's life.

I took a deep breath.

"Greg," I said, "I'm not sorry I killed him -"

He smiled gently.

"And yet, you regret it." he said softly. "It's not a contradiction, you know. You just have a conscience."

I scoffed.

"_What is conscience?" _I quoted_, "'Simply a polite name for superstition, which is a polite nickname for fear._' Fear of punishment -"

He tilted his head.

"Is that why you came here?" he asked, "For fear of _divine_ punishment?"

"I don't know why I came." I said. I looked down, "I don't know anything, anymore."

We were silent for a moment. And when he finally spoke, so did I.

"Grissom -" he started, but I interrupted him.

"I just don't want you to think of me as a gun-totting killer, Greg."

He seemed surprised.

"I don't think of you as a gun-totting killer," he said. "But I can't help feeling grateful," he argued. "You saved my life, Grissom; that's a big deal to me." He smiled faintly, "In fact… If I hadn't been already in love with you, I think I would have fallen all over again."

That took me by surprise; I didn't expect him to talk about our relationship –not at a church.

He was still looking at me.

"Can I ask you something? I mean, bearing in mind that we're in a church and you can't lie to me just to make me feel better?" he paused until I nodded, "Do you regret getting involved with me?"

I hesitated, then shook my head.

"No."

He exhaled.

"Good," he said. Then he smiled good-naturedly. "I don't regret it, either. I had a great time."

I smiled back.

"Me, too."

He kept his gaze on me.

"It's a shame that it ended the way it did," he said quietly, "I mean, we split because of a photo album –can you believe that?" He waited for me to answer, and when I didn't, he added, "We've never really talked about it."

"No." I admitted.

I didn't want to think about it, much less talk about it.

"The door was open." He said softly.

I sighed. "Greg, it doesn't matter -"

"It does, to me." He replied.

I looked at him. I'd practically accused him of snooping around my house; of course it mattered.

"You're right," I said.

"Do you believe me, then?"

I nodded. "I was in that room a couple of days before," I said. "I must have left the door open. I just didn't remember it at the time." I looked up, "I'm sorry I didn't."

It was a half-assed apology but he seemed mollified by it.

"Well…" he started, "Open or not, I probably shouldn't have crossed that door. And I wouldn't have, except that, well -" he hesitated, "I thought you'd left it open on purpose; you know, as a sign that you trusted me."

The implication was clear: I'd never really trusted him.

He shook his head.

"I still don't understand why you keep pictures you don't want to look at."

I didn't know why, myself. I'd loved the people in those pictures, there was no doubt about it. And yet, I couldn't bear to look at them for long.

Maybe it was because we looked like strangers, my parents and me. A man, a woman and a child, standing close together but never touching. If I hadn't shared some physical traits with both of them, anyone would have thought we'd been captured together in the picture by mistake.

The pictures didn't stir up many happy memories, either. Mostly, they reminded me of a time when I longed so much for my father's approval that I was willing to point a gun at a living creature. I didn't admit this to Brass but the truth is, I almost pulled the trigger. I didn't shoot, but I almost did.

Almost. For years, I called my refusal to shoot 'integrity', while my father called it 'cowardice.'

Suddenly, it dawned on me that had my father been alive, he would have been proud of me: I'd finally stalked and killed my prey.

Greg interrupted my thoughts.

"Can I ask you something?" he said, "If you don't like those pictures, why don't you just dump them? Put them in the incinerator -"

"It's my past, Greg." I replied, "I can't just discard it."

Greg stared at me for a moment. Then he smiled faintly.

"It's evidence." He said.

I looked at him.

Maybe that's what it was. Evidence that I'd had a family once. I needed the reminder, I guess; I'd been on my own for so long that sometimes it seemed that I'd simply sprouted out of nowhere.

"It's evidence," I nodded, accepting the explanation he'd provided.

Greg nodded quietly. After a moment, he patted the front pockets of his jacket.

"If you can't get rid of your album," he said, "Then maybe I can add something to it."

He took something from a pocket and handed it to me -a picture. He didn't wait to see my reaction to it. With an effort, he rose from his pew and went to take a closer look at the wood carvings.

I looked down. It was a picture of Greg and me that I'd never seen before. I did remember the day it was taken, though; and the place. Greg's house, December 22; Sanders and Hojems had flown in to celebrate Christmas in Las Vegas, and I'd joined them for dinner.

It had been a noisy affair, with Mama Asty and Papa Olaf presiding over their extended brood. At some point the old guy rose to take pictures, and when he waved his ancient camera in our direction, we dutifully posed for him.

I examined the picture. Greg was smiling confidently at the camera. He was leaning against me, and I could still remember the warmth of his shoulder against mine, and the weight of his hand on my thigh.

I touched the picture, wishing it was his skin under my thumb.

He looked so happy –

And me? I _was_ happy. I really was.

After a moment's hesitation, I tucked the picture in my shirt pocket. Yes, I would put the picture in my album. It was more evidence -evidence of what I'd once had… And lost.

I looked at him.

It was time for me to say something that I should have said a long time ago.

"Greg? I never -" I paused, "I never loved anyone until -"

Greg didn't turn in my direction but by the way his jaw clenched, I knew he'd heard me all right.

There was so much to say, so much to explain… But it wasn't the place or the time. He'd said that saying 'sorry' didn't change anything but it was all I could say now.

"I'm sorry it didn't work out." I said. "I just… I didn't know how to handle it. I never learned to deal with feelings –I guess I never _needed_ to."

I'd always tucked everything away –feelings, memories, pictures…

"There's always a first time for everything, Grissom." Greg said without looking at me.

I shook my head. "To me, it's easier to run _away_ from my feelings."

Greg glanced at me.

"You're gonna have to stop one of these days, Grissom."

"I can't." I whispered.

Greg didn't say anything. He tentatively reached out to touch a carving, only to refrain at the last moment. There was a pained expression on his face, but by the time he looked at me again, it was gone, replaced by his good-natured smile.

"You still haven't told me why you came here."

I shrugged evasively.

"It seemed like a good place to take a rest." I said.

Greg leant on the wall.

"You know… When I saw you enter this place, I thought you'd come here to rage at God. I thought you'd ask Him why He allowed all of this to happen."

I shook my head.

"It's too easy to put the blame on God, Greg."

"Yeah, well… I suppose I'm not as rational as you are," he replied.

"What do you mean?"

"Well…" he hesitated, "I've been thinking of God lately -"

"I can imagine," I said.

"I was pissed off at Him." he admitted.

"Why?"

He didn't immediately reply. He seemed to be choosing his words with care.

"When I was a kid and realized what I was…" he said, "I wondered how God felt about me. I'm a Catholic, too, you know." He added sheepishly, "We both know how the church feels about gays -"

"I don't pay attention to what the church says." I said firmly.

He nodded as if he'd known all along I'd say that.

"I know," he said, "I know you always say that the only approval we need to aspire to is our own. But I can't help it. Deep down, I still hope for some sign that He's ok with the way I live my life."

He looked at me, "When I woke up at the hospital and realized that a _gay_ serial killer had tried to kill me, I felt like shit," he said, and he lowered his voice as he said the last word. "I thought I'd finally got a sign from God, and it wasn't encouraging. It pissed me off."

He smiled as if the memory embarrassed him, "I kept asking, 'why me?' 'why us?' I mean, we're good guys, Grissom. It didn't seem fair for us to go through all this."

"Bad things happen to good people, Greg," I said reasonably. "Every CSI knows that."

"Yeah, well…I wasn't thinking of other people, I was thinking of you and me. I mean, I just wanted another chance with you, Grissom. You know, a chance to talk and make up. And make out," he added, with a brief, embarrassed smile. "Instead, we got into this mess. _I_ got us into this mess -"

"It wasn't you," I blurted out.

He looked questioningly at me.

"It wasn't you," I said again. "It was me. Every decision I made in the last couple of months led us to this, Greg." I took a deep breath, "I made so many mistakes along the way -"

"We both did." he interjected.

I looked at him in the eye. "But it's me who should be asking for forgiveness."

He didn't miss a beat.

"Then I forgive you," he said simply.

I was surprised at the casual tone until I realized that he was simply being Greg: Gentle and good-natured. He didn't hold a grudge against Karen, and he would not hold a grudge against me.

I was in awe of his generosity.

He smiled. "I mean, unless you want to turn this into a competition on who made the biggest mistake -"

I smiled despite myself.

"Hey," he said, "You're smiling. That's a good sign."

It was at moments like these that I understood why I'd fallen for him.

"Thank you, Greg," I said.

Greg's smile remained in place but it seemed to me that there was something forced in it –as if he was desperately trying to hold on to it.

"So," he said quietly, "What about you -do you forgive me?"

And he waited.

There was nothing to forgive –but there was no use in arguing, was there?

"I forgive you." I said.

He nodded casually, but he was obviously moved by my response. His eyes were bright.

He walked back to his pew but didn't sit. After a moment's hesitation, he came over and sat beside me.

He didn't say anything for a long time. He was obviously exhausted.

I kept glancing at him, wondering what to say or what to do now. I hadn't planned on seeing Greg so soon; in fact, only a few hours ago I'd been telling myself that not seeing him again was probably the best thing that could happen.

But I was wrong. Now that he was there, I realized that my feelings for him were as strong as ever.

"There's something you should know," he said suddenly. He didn't look up as he added, "When Jenkins was choking me and telling me what he was going to do, there was a moment when I thought, 'this is it. I'm gonna die.'"

I looked away. This was not something I wanted to hear. It was just too painful.

"I was losing consciousness," he continued. "I was giving up, Grissom. But then suddenly, I thought of you. I pictured you looking for me, desperate and half-crazy with grief, clinging to hope, yet knowing that you would never find me alive," he paused until I looked at him. "I couldn't let that happen, and so I started to fight back."

He looked up.

"Jenkins didn't expect it," he said with a satisfied grin, "It rattled him."

He kept his gaze on me, as if making sure that I understood what he'd just said. Then he glanced away.

"It's fitting that we're here, tonight, you know?" he said, "Back at the hospital, I was angry at God for piling it up on us. I mean, He really did, right? Everything that could have gone wrong, did: Jenkins almost killed Warrick, he almost killed me -" he looked at me with what could only be compassion, "You had to choose between two lives -"

"And yet," he continued, "The more I thought of it, the more I realized that things could have been worse. I mean, yeah, Jenkins could have killed Warrick but didn't; he could have taken me with him –but didn't; you could have missed that shot -"

God, I didn't expect him to be so direct.

"But you didn't." he added.

He gulped. "I believe I got my sign at last, Grissom," he said quietly, "His approval. I mean, we're _alive,_" he paused, "If that's not a blessing, then I don't know what it is."

I looked at him.

"Do you really believe that?" I asked.

"I do." He replied firmly. After a moment, he reached out and tentatively touched my face. It was a chaste caress; soothing and reassuring, like a father's.

I closed my eyes and leant into his touch.

"You're too warm." He whispered, "You've got a fever."

I reluctantly pulled back.

"I'm fine," I said mechanically.

"No, you're not," he replied, "You were like a zombie, out there. You didn't even seem to notice the cars or the people around you. You should go home."

"You, too."

"I know," he said. To my surprise, he actually rose from his seat. He moved with some difficulty. "I guess I should be going. The painkillers are starting to wear off." He looked at me. "Will I see you again, Grissom?"

But he left before I could answer.

---------------

I didn't immediately react. He was giving me a chance, but there was too much to consider. To take that chance meant to stay in Las Vegas, and I didn't know if I could do that.

I would have probably stayed in that church, pondering my choices until the next day arrived, if I hadn't suddenly realized that Greg was in no condition to drive.

I practically bolted from my seat and went after him.

To my relief, Greg wasn't gone yet. He was standing on the sidewalk, glancing around and frowning.

"Funny." He said when he saw me approach, "I don't know which way to go."

I looked around, too.

"Where's your car?"

"Back in your neighborhood."

I was appalled.

"You walked all the way here?" I asked incredulously, "What were you thinking?"

"Hey, if I had known you were coming here, I wouldn't have walked," he glared, "I thought you were going to the nearest drugstore or something. You weren't exactly dressed for a night out, you know."

I smiled to myself. He was his feisty self again. I liked that.

"You're right," I said in what I hoped was an apologetic tone, "We'd better get a cab, then," I said, "Come on," I laid a hand on his shoulder.

My intention was to motion him towards the corner, but touching him put an end to any rational thought. I took a step and then another until I was standing as close to him as I dared.

I wanted to hold him tight but couldn't risk hurting him. Instead, I leant forward and pressed my cheek against his.

Standing so close, I was aware of all the scents that I'd learned to associate with him - chewing gum, fabric softener, soap- but this time there were others, like the bitter scent of the drugs he'd been taking, and the scent of antiseptics. I could even smell the bandages on his chest.

My poor Greg.

I laid my other hand on the side of his head –the side that got the blood spatter from Jenkins' wound.

"Greg," I whispered. _I love you_, I wanted to say. _I don't want to lose you -ever_. _Please, let me stay with you… _

There were so many things I wanted to say. I opened my mouth and then I said the one word I'd only dreamed of saying, "Baby."

I waited for his reaction. I didn't exactly expect him to swoon at the sound of that word, but I was hoping he'd be moved by it.

What he did was chuckle.

"He, he."

"What?" I frowned.

"You said 'baby'," he snickered.

I pulled back.

"So?" I replied uncomfortably, "No good?"

"Oh, it's good," he said, leaning forward until our cheeks were touching again. "Very good, indeed. It's just so out of character -"

"Greg, I've done so many things that seemed out-of-character -" I looked at him, "Sometimes I don't recognize myself anymore -" I finished regretfully.

I looked at him. I was waiting for him to say something –I was waiting for a sign.

A sign and a blessing.

And then he gave me one.

"You're still Grissom." He replied simply.

* * *

THE END

But there might be an epilogue...

Thank you for reviewing...


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